


The Princess and the Knight: A Fairy Tale

by birdkeeperklink (speculating)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't copy to another site, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Idealism, King Ned Stark, Sibling Incest, Tournaments, Wish Fulfillment, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-21 14:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 71,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speculating/pseuds/birdkeeperklink
Summary: Sansa always wanted to be the perfect princess from the songs of old.  Jaime always wanted to be the gallant knight from those same songs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU where Robert decided kinging was boring, so he handed the reins off to Ned. Implausible? Possibly, but that's the reality we're dealing with.
> 
> Sansa starts out the story at fourteen years old, but there are no romantic feelings between them until she's fifteen, and no sex until she's almost seventeen. Still, if that bothers you...well, why are you watching Game of Thrones, but also this story is not for you.

[](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipPvrzqhWLM9n7Uj3D8l6Ll9couUQ9neA748N9L8vfsqEaskAUQUcBkeLrWJ_KkS7g?key=ZzB6V19OWEczUE1TS0pyYmkteHNibjFPc1AwUHBn&source=ctrlq.org)

Sansa’s laugh echoed off the great statues of the Sept of Baelor, high and bright. A few septons glanced her way, but any shushing they might have been tempted to do was quickly suppressed. She was, after all, a Princess of the Realm. Still, she calmed herself. It wouldn’t do to appear too unruly, not if she wanted to remain well thought of. She was too young to have many goals, but being the princess most beloved was one of them.

Not for vanity’s sake--not really--but because she so loved the romantic songs of old. At fourteen, she could think of no better fate than to become a figure of song herself, and strove to act as one of the perfect, golden princesses of song acted.

Unfortunately, laughing at one of her ladies-in-waiting was not in keeping with that image, and Sansa checked herself.

“My apologies, Lady Cynthea,” she said with as sweet a smile as she could manage. “My spirits are high today. I’m afraid it leaves me a bit lightheaded.”

Cynthea Florent shot her a brief, tight smile in return. She’d been commenting on the Stranger, which all of the small gaggle of ladies clearly felt was serious business, not appropriate for humour, but not one of them spoke up to scold or contradict Sansa.

It was as it should be. She serenely resumed her walk about the Sept, until one of the ladies coughed into her handkerchief and mumbled something about teatime.

Sansa waved them off magnanimously. “You needn’t wait for me. I’m going to explore a bit.”

There were curtsies and more than a few admiring looks when she began walking down the steps toward the city, bypassing the litter waiting for her. The Red Keep was far in the distance, gleaming in the sun.

Only Cynthea was brave enough to follow her.

“My Princess, you really ought not to walk about the city unprotected,” she said, the desire to scold the younger girl plain upon her face but her tone mild and concerned.

Sansa glanced back at her, brow furrowed. “I shouldn’t think it dangerous for _me_.”

This was _her_ city, they were _her_ people--she was _their_ princess. Why should they wish to hurt her?

Cynthea sighed and followed her.

The problem, Sansa reflected, wasn’t the lack of guards. It was simply that after one came down from the height of the Sept, the Red Keep was no longer in sight, and it was quite easy to get turned around.

“I think we should go back,” Cynthea said anxiously, trailing behind and hugging her shawl tightly about her, warily eyeing the alley they’d just passed.

“How would that help?” Sansa asked without pausing.

“ _Princess_ ,” Cynthea whined.

It was then that Sansa turned through a doorway, and what she saw stopped her in her tracks. Cynthea ran into her back but recoiled immediately at the sight and smell before them.

There were children everywhere--a room full of them. Thin and filthy, barely dressed in ill-fitting rags, there were so many children packed into the small courtyard that many of them were sitting atop each other. The stench of unwashed bodies and all manner of filth radiated off of them. Two harried septas wandered around the edges, distributing a pinch off a loaf of bread to every child they could reach.

The children looked back at the two noblewomen with eyes that seemed all the more huge for the gauntness of their faces. Not one of them smiled or even grimaced. They simply stared, dull and almost lifeless.

“How?” Sansa said with no voice, for the air seemed to have frozen in her lungs. “How, in _our_ city?”

“They’re just peasants,” said Cynthea, who hadn’t heard her. “Let’s go back to the sept and ask them to send someone to fetch us.”

Sansa’s lips thinned, but she nodded and followed Cynthea back out of the net of alleys. The Sept of Baelor was still visible from these side streets, and they made it back easily enough. She waited impatiently for a litter to be brought--she needed to speak with her father about this. It couldn’t be allowed to stand. _Someone_ had to do something about it, even if that someone was her. She couldn’t stand by and do nothing while children starved and died, and lived in such miserable conditions.

She didn’t once think about acting the perfect princess as she waited, nor as she and Cynthea were borne back to the Red Keep, nor as she went to seek out the King.

Sansa found her father in his solar, the doors guarded by two of the Kingsguard--Ser Meryn and Ser Jaime. They didn’t step aside or open the doors at her approach, much to her surprise. She had only been in the capital for a month, ever since her fourteenth nameday, but they always stepped aside when she came to see one of her parents.

Her surprise must have shown, because Ser Jaime spoke.

“My apologies, my Princess,” he said, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “His Grace gave orders that he was not to be disturbed until further notice.”

She blinked. “Oh.” She suppressed the urge to fidget, or possibly to throw something at them. “If you please, Ser Jaime, would you kindly inform my father that I wish to speak to him when he is available? I would be most grateful. It isn’t urgent.”

It _was_ , most terribly urgent, but she didn’t think that would sway Ser Jaime.

The ever-present smile he wore seemed to fade a little, and his gaze was sharp enough to make her hold her breath.

“I will, my Princess,” he said finally.

Sansa flashed him a bright, nervous smile and took her leave with a polite curtsy, struggling not to display her frustration.

Knights in general were a little less glamorous and a little more frightening now that she was seeing them up close. They were all very intense, it seemed, with few exceptions. Although, she supposed they had to be. They trained to protect others and to kill enemies and they had to be vigilant, and that would make anyone rather intense. Some of the knights were downright grim.

Though a lot of things weren’t turning out the way she’d imagined them.

Ser Jaime wasn’t one of the grim knights. He was always smiling, as though he was laughing at everyone around him, or at some private joke of his own. Still, he had been polite to her, and his eyes didn’t rove over her the way some of the others’ did, and she wished to be on good terms with the men guarding her father. She would need to see them regularly, and real respect, she had learned growing up at Winterfell, was based on generosity and respect _given_.

To that end, she went straight back to her chambers and spoke with Adylla, her favourite and most trusted handmaid.

 

Jaime resisted the impulse to sigh. Guarding Ned Stark’s door all day, every day was not what he had envisioned when he dreamed of becoming a knight someday as a boy. Everyone loved dear old King Ned, for varying reasons--Robert because he could do whatever he liked within reason, Littlefinger because Ned was so honest that he could run circles around him with his schemes and still be handsomely rewarded, Varys because he was a good king, at least as far as Jaime could tell. The realm was relatively peaceful, the smallfolk were well-fed and content, the high lords had nothing to complain of with their frugal Crown seeing to it that they all prospered in one way or another.

It was all very nice--and very boring. Still, it was better than what he had witnessed during Aerys’s reign, Jaime thought with a shudder. He still had nightmares from those days, and he would gladly guard Ned Stark’s door for eternity for a guarantee that he would never again have to stand idly by and watch while such atrocities occurred.

But a _little_ excitement wouldn’t hurt. Tournaments were expensive, so unless some lord or other held one, they were rare, and Jaime could only participate if Ned chose to attend, which was also rare. He had thought that the Princess Sansa’s arrival at court after her fourteenth nameday would cause some stir.

Prince Robb’s certainly had. The entire court had travelled to Winterfell to retrieve Ned’s beloved heir, the pampered and adored Crown Prince after his fourteenth nameday. Jaime had been more than a little disgusted by the fanfare of it all, not to mention the month-long journey to the grim, cold North, but the tournament when they returned to King’s Landing to celebrate Prince Robb’s arrival had made up for the inconvenience.

Not so with Princess Sansa. To Jaime’s surprise, King Ned and Queen Catelyn had seen no need to personally fetch their second-born. They sent a detachment of Stark guards to bring her to the capital alone. When she arrived, there was one feast, unlike the week of feasting and merriment to mark Robb’s arrival, and no tournament. It was more than a little disappointing.

She remained just as quiet as her arrival. In the month since, she had been polite and courteous when she spoke to anyone, and unlike her brother, she had made no demands. Even her very few requests were polite and unassuming. Jaime would have informed anyone else that he was a Kingsguard, not a messenger or a servant, but the princess’s courteous request and respectful manner had surprised him enough to consider complying. At any rate, he might at least tell Ned’s steward to tell Ned that his daughter wished to speak with him.

“Don’t tell me _you_ want to see the king,” Meryn, the pig, snorted, bringing Jaime back to the present.

A handmaid stood trembling before them, holding a tray with two cups, a flagon of wine, two lumps of bread, and some cheese.

“No, Ser Meryn,” the woman said, her eyes averted. “If it please you, sers, Princess Sansa has instructed me to bring you some refreshment.”

“Well, that’s completely different,” Meryn said, almost knocking the tray from her hands in his eagerness to snatch it.

The handmaid curtsied, clearly eager to leave. Jaime was still more than a little surprised at Princess Sansa sending them a bribe or a gift, however it was intended, and dismissed her with a curt wave. The woman fled with visible relief, and he partook of the wine more cautiously than his fellow guard.

They didn’t drop dead or fall asleep, and if it was intended as a bribe, then the princess never returned to see if it had worked and she would be permitted entrance now. Somewhat grudgingly, Jaime was forced to conclude that the little princess was simply _being kind_. It was rare enough in the capital that he found himself thinking about it for several days afterwards, seeking a darker motive. She played the perfect lady, but no one did anything in King’s Landing without another purpose. If there was one, he wasn’t clever enough to find it.

He delivered her message to the king that afternoon.

 

Sansa’s parents were both extremely busy, but her father finally granted her an audience a week after she requested it. He was visibly weary, but he greeted her with a smile and gave her his full attention when she sat beside him.

“What do you need, sweet girl?” he asked fondly. “I hope nothing is wrong. I told them to make sure you had every comfort here in the Red Keep.”

Sansa folded her hands neatly in her lap. “That is why I wish to speak to you, Father. I am quite comfortable here, and I have everything I could possibly need and more--but there are those who are not so fortunate. I have spoken with the High Septon after my prayers on several occasions, and he has told me of several orphanages here in the city, and the conditions of some of the poor of Flea Bottom.”

His brow was wrinkled with confusion, but he was obviously listening. Even Ser Jaime, posted nearby while they talked in the gardens, had turned to look at her, apparently more interested in listening to the conversation than in watching the other denizens of the gardens.

“Yes, unfortunately the capital is home to some of our poorest citizens,” her father said slowly. “I do what I can for them, but I am sorry to say that they are not a priority. I must put the safety and stability of the realm before any one citizen.”

“I know that, Father,” she said earnestly, touching his big rough hand. “I know you would help if you could, but you are terribly busy and have so many responsibilities--but that is why I’ve asked to speak with you. I don’t have any responsibilities to see to, and I should very much like to help the poor children if I can. I would like your permission to go down to them twice a week, to bring food and clothing, perhaps bring a maester with me to see to them if needs be. May I, Father, please?”

He considered for so long that she thought he meant to refuse. Just when she had given up hope, he turned to Ser Jaime.

“Kingslayer--how would you feel about escorting Princess Sansa down to Flea Bottom twice a week?” he asked gruffly.

Ser Jaime smiled his sardonic smile. “If Your Grace commands it.”

“I do.” He turned back to her and softened, kissing her cheek. “Go on, speak with my steward. He’ll make sure you have everything you need to feed and clothe the poor things.”

Sansa beamed and hugged him. “Oh, thank you, Father!”

 

Jaime didn’t resent his new responsibility of escorting the princess to and from Flea Bottom twice a week, though everyone around him seemed to think he should, as though it was somehow a humiliating duty for a Kingsguard. In truth, it didn’t matter whether or not it was meant to humiliate him--it broke up the monotony very well, and so he was thankful for it.

It was also surprisingly difficult to resent anything about Princess Sansa, in distinct contrast to her brother. Prince Robb was arrogant and self-righteous, his false humility routinely exposed by his petulant demands. Jaime dreaded being assigned to him and having to listen to him snap at everyone around him over everything from his clothing to the meals they brought.

His sister, however, was sweet and thoughtful to everyone she met. She was more than a little naive, but Jaime grew to find it charming how horrified and upset she got whenever she encountered some new suffering, immediately trying to help in any way she could. Her face would turn red and her eyes would well, but she wouldn’t give up until everything that could be done had been done. Jaime still waited for a sign of her true colours underneath, but in the meantime, he was pleased to be seen serving someone who appeared to be a shining, pure example of nobility--a perfect princess to play the gallant knight to. It was soothing to at least _pretend_ that he was the man he’d wanted to be as a boy, and Princess Sansa filled her role beautifully.

Under her care, every orphan in the city became fat and healthy and happy. The poor districts became cleaner and in better repair. She didn’t appear to notice, but her popularity among the general populace grew with every visit into the city, every errand of mercy. Her parents and her brother noticed--particularly when, after almost a year, the royal family visited the Sept of Baelor and the people did not call out for King Eddard or Queen Catelyn or Prince Robb as they had once.

“Princess Sansa! Princess Sansa!” they cried as the family proceeded through the streets.

They held up icons with her face on them and praised the Mother for bringing her to them. Jaime smiled with satisfaction at Prince Robb’s sour expression, inexplicably proud of his little princess. He softened when he caught sight of her face--she was flushed with bashful pleasure, thanking the people who could hear her with sincerity that did her credit.

And she was handing out coins, he realised, increasing the adoration of the crowd in her efforts to be kind.

Perhaps, Jaime thought hesitantly, Princess Sansa might actually be worthy of his service and loyalty.

 

“I’m coming with you,” Robb announced on her next trip out of the Red Keep.

Sansa hesitated and glanced at Ser Jaime, who merely smiled enigmatically, as always. Robb followed her glance and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. Ser Meryn was at his back, looking smug and eyeing Sansa in a way that made her uncomfortable.

“Ser Meryn will accompany us today,” Robb said. “Your services won’t be needed, Kingslayer.”

Ser Jaime stiffened, his smile turning brittle. Sansa felt a sudden flash of anger, hot and red and unfamiliar. She had been dragging him all over King’s Landing for over a year now, and never once had he complained or treated her with anything but courtesy. On the contrary, he had been very helpful with anything she required during their forays. She took it very personally to hear him so, in her opinion, undeservedly insulted, and it made her braver than she normally was with her brother.

“ _Ser Jaime_ is attending to me, not you, and will leave when I dismiss him,” she said coldly, drawing herself up very primly. “If you wish to accompany me and be guarded by Ser Meryn, you are free to do so, but kindly do not interfere with myself or Ser Jaime.”

They all three looked at her with surprise. She struggled not to lose her composure despite the heat rising in her cheeks. It _was_ very unlike her, as she too often deferred to others in her efforts to seem the perfect princess, and she was afraid she would back down and give in to Robb if she allowed herself to feel embarrassed. She turned to Ser Jaime with a faint smile.

“Shall we, Ser Jaime?”

He blinked at her for a moment before recovering himself enough to smile and bow slightly. “At your pleasure, my Princess.”

Her smile brightened and she inclined her head, turning to lead the way. She heard him fall in step behind her and kept her chin raised, though her hands were shaking and her heart was racing with nerves. She had never stood up to Robb, ever, and it was more than a little rattling.

But Robb followed without another word on the subject, and other than a few considering glances, he gave no sign of being at all affected by the altercation.

It didn’t matter soon enough, as Sansa’s attention was devoted to the little ones. They flocked to her, as they always did, seeming a bit wary of Robb even after she introduced him. He seemed a bit awkward around them, too, but she was certain that time would solve their mutual caution.

The children were downright frightened of Ser Meryn, and she didn’t blame them one bit. In fact, she made an effort to keep them away from him as much as she could.

She had never noticed before, but the stark contrast to Ser Meryn and Robb made her notice how the children reacted to Ser Jaime--and how he treated them. It was plain that they were in awe of him, but there was no fear in their open worship of the knight, and they followed him around like ducklings after their mother. He, in turn, gentled his smiles and moved carefully amongst them. He ruffled the boys’ hair when he passed and offered the girls a gallant hand up when it was their turn in the food line.

When Sansa gathered the children round her for a story and a song or two, Ser Jaime sat near the back and let the little ones clamber over him, settling themselves on his knees and on his shoulders.

“What will you sing, then?” Robb asked, somewhat irritably, she thought. “The Bear and the Maiden Fair?”

Ser Meryn snickered, the matrons tutted their disapproval, and the children blinked innocently.

Sansa raised a brow. She didn’t care for her brother’s attitude after he had invited himself along, and she wished to convey the message in a way that wouldn’t be obvious to the children.

A glance at Ser Jaime provided some inspiration, and after a pause, she began to sing.

“And who are you, the proud lord said, that I should bow so low….” **(1)**

Robb flushed at her song choice and her pointed expression. He ground his jaw, but she saw him nod almost imperceptibly and knew that he understood the rebuke.

The children cheered and begged for another when she was finished.

Sansa smiled. “Oh, very well. Perhaps something a bit gentler for us maidens, hmm?”

The boys pretended to groan and the girls tittered into their chubby little hands. Ser Jaime, who had looked a little put out when she began “The Rains of Castamere,” appeared to relax again.

“Come all you fair and tender maids that flourish in your prime,” she sang, steady and clear. It was one of her favourites. “Beware, beware, keep your garden fair. Let no man steal your thyme, let no man steal your thyme….” **(2)**

She thought her love for the song must have shown, because even Robb and Ser Meryn were attentive while she sang. Ser Jaime seemed to be completely captivated, his lips parted as he watched her. She sang a little more confidently at having such an appreciative audience.

“…So all the world might plainly see how my love slighted me, how my love slighted me.” **(2)**

The children, the matrons, the two Kingsguard, and even Robb applauded enthusiastically when she finished. Sansa smiled and flushed with pleasure.

 

Prince Robb and Meryn continued to join them on their rounds twice a week long after Jaime assumed they would lose interest. Princess Sansa’s fifteenth nameday came and went, and the months passed, and despite the lack of success in improving his popularity, the prince continued to accompany them.

Jaime truly resented it, more so with each passing day. Prince Robb remained rude and self-righteous, and he routinely attempted to crush his sister’s hopes and ideas with his own cynicism. It rankled a little more every day. His little princess was growing from a sweet yet naive girl into a young woman who paired her endless compassion with the intelligence to find ways to ease the suffering she saw around her, and Jaime did not appreciate her brother’s disgruntled attempts to shut her down. It hurt him to see her eyes dim when her brother criticised one of her ideas, his jealousy making him needlessly cruel.

Although Princess Sansa’s kindness and gentleness didn’t mean there was no strength in her. She never stood up to her family in her own interest, but Jaime fondly remembered her defence of him the day Prince Robb first decided to accompany her. He saw another example a few weeks before the royal family and entourage was to leave King’s Landing for Winterfell again, this time to bring Princess Arya for her fourteenth nameday and the start of her life at court, as well as King Ned’s bastard son Jon. There would be a tournament upon their return to celebrate Princess Arya’s arrival. Princess Sansa hadn’t appeared to notice the difference between her treatment and that of her siblings, but Jaime marked it well and nurtured the festering resentment it caused.

The strength in his princess shone when they were leaving Flea Bottom one evening after a very successful day. Meryn was the first to notice the prostitute stumbling down the street toward them, her arms wrapped around a bundle.

“Away with you,” he snarled, his hand on his sword. “Filthy whore.”

Prince Robb’s mouth drew up into a sneer--but Princess Sansa rounded on Meryn.

“Leave her be! She means no harm.” She turned to the frightened woman with a kind smile. “Please, come closer. Don’t mind him.”

Jaime’s eyes flicked over the whore, but he didn’t see how she could possibly pose a threat and he relaxed slightly. The woman was filthy and as thin as a rail, clutching what was now clearly a baby to her breast. Her eyes were wide with desperation and hunger. She attempted a curtsy, and Princess Sansa put a hand out to steady her when she bobbled.

“I am sorry, my Princess,” the whore stammered, on the verge of either tears or hysteria, trembling all over with fear. “I didn’t have nowhere else to turn. Lord Baelish turned me out when I had my little one, and I--someone told me you had the kindest heart anywhere, that you helped the little ones--I wouldn’t have come to ya, but my little one--”

Princess Sansa stroked the baby’s dirty head softly. “What’s your baby’s name?”

“His name’s Tol, my Princess,” she said, her wild face gentling as she looked down at the babe.

“You say no one else would help the two of you?” she asked, faint anger beginning to take root in her blue eyes and soft voice.

The whore shifted nervously. “No, my Princess. I don’t ask a place for myself, only for little Tol--”

“His place is with his mother,” Princess Sansa said firmly. “What is your name?”

“Banna, my Princess.”

She nodded to herself, as if that name was exactly the one she had wanted to hear. “If you can’t find a place on your own, then we will _find_ a place for you. And if there isn’t one, then we will _make_ one.”

Jaime thought his smile might actually be real this time--but Prince Robb stepped forward, his sneer more pronounced than ever.

“Sansa, she’s a _whore_ ,” he said, making no effort to hide his disdain for the woman. “Let’s go home, I’m tired.”

Banna looked like she might burst into tears. Meryn was making no attempt to hide his amusement.

His little princess whirled on her brother, her eyes flashing fire. “You are the heir to the throne! One day, you will be the king, the _father of the realm_! The _entire realm_ , not just the subjects _you_ deem to be acceptable!”

Prince Robb’s mouth fell open and hung there. He was utterly speechless.

Princess Sansa turned from him and her anger vanished, replaced with compassion and friendliness as she moved to Banna’s side and took her arm.

“Come,” she said gently. “I won’t rest until I find a place for you and your child.”

The pair of women walked away, down the street, leaving Prince Robb and Meryn gaping after them. Jaime watched his princess in wonder and admiration for a moment longer before offering the prince and his guard a smirk and following her.

She _was_ worthy of every ounce of love and loyalty she received. Jaime could only strive to be worthy of her in return.

 

Sansa could have ridden in the wheelhouse with her mother and Lady Cersei and her daughter, Myrcella, but she found their idle chatter to be a distraction. Once, she would have enjoyed it, but now she had so many other things to think about. She had become the patroness of many of the orphanages and poorhouses in King’s Landing over the past months, and actually owned one of the poorhouses herself. No one would take Banna in, unwilling to allow a prostitute to “corrupt” any of the other girls and women in their care, so Sansa had asked her father for the money and had purchased a place herself. Banna and Tol were thriving, but unfortunately, her little poorhouse was quickly filling up with other “undesirables” who hadn’t been able to find help or shelter anywhere else. She needed to come up with a solution by the time they returned to the capital.

Besides, the wheelhouse was confining, and Sansa wanted to see more of the kingdoms, to see what else she might do to help those less fortunate than herself. She knew her parents were doing a good job running the kingdoms--everyone told her so, even Lord Varys, who seemed so critical of everyone at times--but it seemed to her that they were failing some of the people who were on the very bottom rungs of society. If she could make up for this lapse in some small way, she wanted to do so.

And…there was also the secret pleasure of having Ser Jaime at her side while she rode. He had been a near-constant presence at her side over the past two years, ever since she began making trips into the city shortly after arriving, and he had even begun guarding her within the Red Keep at times, as Ser Meryn guarded Robb. She found herself missing him when he was gone. She often looked to him for support if she was unsure that she was taking the right course in certain situations, and she had learned to read him well enough to look past his sardonic smile. His eyes were dim if he disapproved, and Sansa would pause to think before either proceeding or finding a way to backtrack without embarrassing anyone. Most of the time, though, it was clear that she had his approval and support--his eyes seemed to dance and his smile was more sincere than usual.

Sometimes she caught herself wishing there was more than approval and friendly regard in his eyes, as such looks caused her to flush with heat. She chastised herself for such thoughts--Ser Jaime was sworn to the Kingsguard. Whatever her father or anyone else thought of him, Sansa knew him to be honourable, and she knew he would never develop such thoughts or feelings for _her_. He would never take a wife, so he would never think of her as anything more than his charge and a princess. She was fortunate enough that he seemed to feel some friendship for her.

“It’s a lovely day for a ride, isn’t it, Princess?”

Sansa felt her jaw clench and her nostrils flare, and strictly forbade her eyes from rolling. A glance at Ser Jaime showed that he was very amused by this, which only served to increase her annoyance.

Joffrey Baratheon, Lord Robert’s eldest son, had been making every effort to insinuate himself into her good graces during the journey north. The obvious approval from Lord Robert and Sansa’s own parents had only spurred him on. Lady Cersei was more unreadable, but the fact that she had made no remarks _against_ such a match passed for approval with her.

The problem was that, despite his efforts to play at gallantry, Sansa had already seen what Joffrey was. Their two families had met three times over the years--once when they were small, when Robert had dragged his family to Winterfell to help King Eddard celebrate the birth of his second son after two girls in a row; the second time when the royal entourage had gone north to fetch Robb and take him to King’s Landing; and the third time when they had come to King’s Landing for the feast celebrating Sansa’s arrival in the capital. Lord Baratheon was often in the capital, leaving his family at Storm’s End--she suspected because it was easier to carry on with his whoring if Lady Cersei was not around--but those three occasions were enough for Sansa to get the measure of Joffrey’s character. His servants were frightened, jumpy creatures, and many of them bore bruises or other suspicious marks. She had seen him shrieking at them when he was displeased over some trivial matter or other.

She would not spend her life tied to him, no matter how much she loved her parents. She would rather die an old maid.

“So it is, Lord Joffrey,” she said flatly.

A month of his intrusions had worn her patience thin.

He looked puzzled, and she wondered whether he was a good actor or if he was truly so clueless. “Are you upset about something, Princess?”

“Not at all. I was simply enjoying the peace and quiet.”

Joffrey didn’t get it, but she heard Ser Jaime snort.

“Oh. Yes, it is very pleasant out in the country,” Joffrey blathered on. “If only we could get rid of all the peasants.”

Sansa lost the battle--she turned to Ser Jaime and rolled her eyes. He grinned, shaking his head as Joffrey went on, oblivious to her irritation.

After a couple of hours of flat responses and blatant disinterest on Sansa’s part, Joffrey finally grew bored and went off to amuse himself. Ser Jaime drew his horse up beside hers once his nephew was gone, smirking at her irritated expression.

She blew out a breath, feeling guilty. “I’m sorry, Ser Jaime. I know he’s your nephew, but I really can’t stand him. I beg your pardon, but I would rather have my teeth slowly pulled out, one by one, with nothing to dull the pain, than try to engage in conversation with him.”

Ser Jaime burst out laughing, delight crinkling his face. “My Princess, I have never heard such an odd apology,” he said when he had recovered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “But there is no need to ask my pardon. Joffrey is my blood, but I am aware that he is…unpleasant. I myself spend as little time around him as possible.”

“That must make it difficult to spend time with your sister and your other nephew and niece,” she said, sympathetic.

He was quiet for a while, his smile fading. “Things were not always as they are now. Joffrey wasn’t always so callous and self-centred--at least that I noticed. He was a happy, affectionate child. And years of marriage to Lord Baratheon have made my sister grow…hard. Bitter. She was never a gentle soul, but it was once only a joy to be around her. Now…even I approach with caution.”

Sansa nodded in comprehension, gloomy thoughts of her own intruding. “Everything always gets more complicated with time.”

He hummed his agreement.

“And I do feel for your sister,” she added, thinking unhappily of the match her own parents wished for her. “We women are at the mercy of the men around us. You make war and we must make the best of it. We have no money nor lands of our own, so we must depend on you to make our living for us. The best we can hope for is a good match with a lord powerful enough to keep us safe and rich enough to keep us and our children fed, and that our fathers will consent to the match once it is offered. To hope for happiness--or love--in our marriage, well…. My parents are the exception to the rule, and my mother was originally intended for my uncle Brandon. It was miraculous fortune that they achieved real love and happiness in their marriage. The rest of us would be fools to hope for it.”

He looked at her then, and she saw worry where she expected to find pity.

“You deserve to be happy and loved,” he said, slowly, as though the thought had only just occurred to him.

That surprised her, but she hid behind a bitter smile, glancing back at the entourage trundling along the road behind them. She turned back to him with a lump in her throat.

“My parents want me to accept Joffrey, if he asks for my hand,” she admitted, and spurred her horse ahead.

Ser Jaime followed her, and they spoke no more on the subject.

 

“To think that I should be forced to contemplate Sansa Stark for a daughter-in-law--that I must pretend to be flattered and honoured by the prospect. It would be funny if it weren’t so disgusting.”

Jaime gritted his teeth through his sister’s bitter diatribe. Moments alone together were rare enough on the road, and he didn’t want her to storm off in a fit of rage. Still, he found it impossible to bear her remarks against his princess in complete silence--silence would imply acceptance, and he very much did not accept Cersei’s unfounded hatred for Princess Sansa.

“If it’s any consolation, she is sweet-natured enough to bear Joffrey’s and your remarks with equanimity, and is unlikely to quarrel with you over the wedding arrangements,” he said, rather more acidly than he’d intended.

Cersei glared at him. “I’m so glad you find all this so amusing.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “Do I look amused to you? I didn’t slip away with you to discuss a marriage that may never happen all afternoon.”

“Don’t you even care about your son’s prospects?” she hissed, glancing around as though there were spies in the bushes.

He huffed, folding his arms and leaning against a tree. “I consider marriage to the princess to be a more than fair prospect.”

Her face twisted with disgust and contempt--but Jaime tasted bitterness on his tongue for an entirely different reason.

“That insipid little cow,” she sneered. “She doesn’t deserve him.”

But he felt exactly the opposite-- _Joffrey_ did not deserve _Sansa_. The bitterness increased, and he straightened from his slouch against the tree trunk.

“If all we’re going to do is discuss Joffrey and the princess, then I’m leaving,” he said curtly.

That changed Cersei’s attitude very quickly, and he allowed himself to be distracted by her petting and pretty words. His attention remained divided, though, as he was unable to shake the image of Princess Sansa’s sorrowful face from his mind.

 

Sansa enjoyed showing Ser Jaime around her home. He had, of course, been to Winterfell before, but she showed him the secret places that only someone who had lived there could know, and told him inside information about those places and the inhabitants that he couldn’t have been privy to otherwise. He seemed very interested, which made it all the more fun.

“What about that tower?” he asked at the end of her little tour, when they were making their way back to Winterfell after sneaking out through one of the secret passages.

Sansa looked where he pointed, then shook her head. “It’s in disrepair, so everyone thinks it’s a good place to sneak off to, but Bran is always climbing it and he sees whatever you’re doing in there,” she said, annoyed by her little brother’s antics. “He once caught me eating a cake I had stolen from the kitchens and he tattled on me.”

Ser Jaime grinned. “ _You_ , my Princess? You _stole_ a cake?”

She felt her face flush. “It was a lemon cake, and I couldn’t wait until tea time.”

He laughed at her, his eyes twinkling. She tried to be angry, but found it impossible.

They returned to the castle in high spirits--but the mood was quickly dampened by Joffrey’s arrival.

“Ah, Princess Sansa, I’ve been looking for you,” he said pompously, offering her his arm. His eyes flicked dismissively over Ser Jaime. “You may go, Uncle.”

Sansa shot Ser Jaime a pleading look over her shoulder as Joffrey half dragged her away, but he merely watched them go with a dark expression she couldn’t read.

Things didn’t improve at feast that evening. By the time the men were falling over drunk, Sansa had had enough and desired only a little quiet and solitude. She would have gone straight to her bedchamber, but a part of her was afraid that Joffrey would seek her out. Instead, she slipped down to the cellars, searching for the secret door set in the wall behind the casks of wine.

She reached it, but before she could open the door, a sound reached her ears. She paused, tilting her head--there it was again, a moan, like someone….

Sansa opened the door to ensure that she was correct and it wasn’t actually someone injured, and froze with horror at the scene the lamplight revealed.

Lady Cersei was on her knees, her breasts on display as she rocked back into her brother. Ser Jaime was kissing her neck and clutching her to him, his hips thrusting against her backside. The wet sucking and slapping of flesh against flesh removed any doubt that her eyes were deceiving her.

Lady Cersei moaned again and tossed her head back, dislodging Ser Jaime’s mouth from her neck. He pulled back to readjust, panting, and his eyes met Sansa’s. She watched as they widened, his mouth falling open and his face going white.

Then she quietly closed the door and slipped away, climbing up into one of the places she hadn’t shown him--a slatted storage area above the stairs that was all but invisible from below. It was the sort of hiding place where only their father would catch the children, because only he would think to look up from the correct vantage point, having grown up in Winterfell himself. She would be safer from Joffrey here than behind the secret door anyway.

To her surprise, she heard running footsteps beneath her.

“My Princess--Sansa, wait!”

She cautiously peered between the slats, watching Ser Jaime run to the landing, where he stood looking around, breathing hard and running an agitated hand through his hair. He had laced up his breeches but neglected the rest of his clothing in his hurry to follow her.

“Sansa!” he called again.

She didn’t answer, and she was shocked to see his face crumple when he turned to go back down the steps.

“Sansa?” he called half-heartedly down the doorway to the root cellar.

Lady Cersei was climbing the stairs with a distinctly irritated expression. “I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss. You said yourself that she probably won’t tell anyone. She’s too _sweet_ , remember?” she added nastily.

Ser Jaime rounded on her. “That isn’t the point! I need to find her, to explain….”

Her look was pitying. “And what will you say, Jaime? That you love your sister as a wife, and she will just miraculously understand?”

“I….” He swallowed. “I don’t want her to think ill of me.”

Lady Cersei snorted. “It was too late for that from the moment she saw us together. Go to bed, Jaime. I’ll figure out how to deal with the little wench myself.”

He stood there long after his sister had gone.

Sansa settled back into her hiding place and thought about everything she had just seen and heard.

 

Jaime couldn’t sleep that night. There was an ache inside him that he couldn’t ease. The thought that his princess was somewhere in this keep, thinking of the oaths he had broken, the sins he had committed, made the bile rise in his throat. He wished he could take it back, that he could go back and refuse Cersei and escort her to bed instead.

His hands shook when he dressed the next morning. Most of the people he passed were too hungover to notice his state, or if they did note it, they attributed it to the same cause. Not Cersei--she smirked when she saw him.

“Awww, poor Jaime,” she said with mocking sweetness. “Couldn’t you sleep last night, thinking about your little princess and how much you disappointed her?”

That was an entirely accurate description of his current state, and she knew it--and she _laughed_ at him.

Tyrion, who had been off whoring and drinking most of the time they were there, looked at them askance, apparently surmising the situation despite his own obvious hangover.

“She saw you?”

Jaime just looked at him, aware that he was showing his agony but unable to help it.

Cersei just kept laughing. “Oh--you should see yourself, Jaime. You poor idiot. You look like you’re going to cry. You look--you look like someone took one of your toys and slapped you.”

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. For a moment, he wished Sansa _would_ turn them in, because at least he might have the satisfaction of watching Cersei screaming in her own agony before he died.

He quickly backed away from such thoughts. He didn’t want anything to happen to his two youngest children, so of course he didn’t want her to tell anyone. But he did wonder when his sister had become such a hateful creature, as hateful as their firstborn, and why he hadn’t noticed before.

Tyrion looked at him for a moment longer before quietly excusing himself from the table and leaving the hall. He was most likely just going to vomit, but Jaime immediately felt the loss of his staunchest ally.

Cersei brightened suddenly. “Good morning, Princess Sansa! How did you sleep?”

Jaime turned, dread filling his stomach like lead. His eyes met hers--but her face was impassive.

After a moment, her gaze turned to Cersei and she smiled politely.

“Very well, thank you, Lady Cersei. And yourself?”

“Like a baby,” Cersei said, so sugary that Jaime felt like gagging.

Sansa’s polite smile widened. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Then she simply walked away, joining her family. Jaime knew he should feel relieved, but somehow, he felt even worse. She had barely acknowledged him at all.

“Well,” Cersei said, self-satisfied to the point of smugness. “It seems you may have been right this time, brother. I won’t need to do anything about her after all. She seems content to ignore what happened. How fortunate for her.”

Jaime whirled on her in a vicious whisper. “If anything happens to her, I will take you apart one piece at a time and feed you to your fat oaf of a husband.”

She blinked at him, open-mouthed, shocked but not afraid.

He stood and stormed out of the hall without another word to anyone.

He regretted saying it. He was angry with Cersei, and…as much as he had never imagined such a circumstance, he didn’t think he was in love with her anymore--but she was still his sister, and he wouldn’t really hurt her. He couldn’t bring himself to go back and apologise, either. He just wanted to be alone for a while.

 

Sansa watched Ser Jaime leave. A part of her wanted to go after him, but she stayed put for several reasons. One was the keen eye of Cersei Lannister, watching her for any signs of partiality. Another was her uncertainty that Ser Jaime would welcome her company.

The most important was her own ambivalence. She strongly disliked Cersei and her eldest son--who she now realised was also Ser Jaime’s son. The resemblance between him and all of the “Baratheon” children was undeniable, knowing what she did now. She was a fairly religious person, and their incestuous relationship was more than a little disturbing to her. It was deeply wrong. Her mind reeled from it every time she tried to picture how it had started in the first place.

On the other hand, she had no desire to see any of them dead, no matter how much she disliked them personally. The fact that she thought Joffrey and Cersei were terrible people didn’t automatically mean they deserved to be executed, which was undoubtedly the fate that awaited all of them if the truth came to be known. Tommen and Myrcella most certainly didn’t deserve to die--they were good, kind children, with no sign of the cruelty and selfishness Joffrey had displayed since childhood, despite what Ser Jaime seemed to think.

She didn’t want Ser Jaime to die, either. Her feelings were confused, a mess of hurt and longing and anger and sympathy that she found difficult to sort out. The one thing that was clear was that she didn’t want him dead--she didn’t want him to be away from her. Even if he didn’t….

Well. She had known that was impossible to hope for even before she saw them together last night. And he had never lied to her about it. He had never made any statements about love or interest in anyone--she had assumed it was because of his Kingsguard vows and not bothered to ask. She was the one who had called Joffrey his nephew--Ser Jaime only acknowledged him as “my blood,” a vague familial claim, and not a lie. They shared a friendship, one she treasured dearly.

Ser Jaime wasn’t the only one who loved where he shouldn’t, she reminded herself, grimacing guiltily. Perhaps it wasn’t something one could help. It was something that just happened. She certainly hadn’t _chosen_ to fall in love with her guard.

And at least it _was_ love. The Targaryens had done it just to “preserve the bloodline.” If they could marry their own siblings for no other reason than that, and she could accept it, then surely she could accept Ser Jaime’s illicit relationship with his sister when it was based on love. She had to, if she wanted to keep his friendship--and she rather desperately wanted to.

She excused herself from the table easily enough, as Arya was regaling the family with yet another of her hunting stories. A few discreet inquiries led her to the godswood.

Ser Jaime was sitting beneath the heart tree, staring into the pool nearby with a desolate expression.

Sansa stepped forward, deliberately placing a smile on her face. “You promised to accompany me on a ride today,” she said teasingly. “And yet I find you contemplating the Gods. One might almost begin to question your honour.”

He had bolted to his feet when she first began to speak. He wavered now, clearly wishing to move closer to her but uncertain she would welcome it.

“I…. Princess Sansa, please allow me to explain,” he said, the words tumbling over themselves in his haste to get them out. “It was never my intention to break faith with you. I--”

She raised a hand and his mouth snapped shut. He looked miserable and afraid, like a man expecting a death sentence. It made her terribly sad. She allowed it to show a little, her lips curving.

“There is no need, Ser Jaime,” she said softly. “You have broken no faith with me.” She paused, glancing at the heart tree for strength before she met his eyes again. “We can’t help whom we love. Can we?”

The misery and fear cleared from his face, leaving only a sad smile that mirrored her own.

“No, we can’t,” he agreed quietly.

She nodded almost absently and the silence blanketed them like snow. After a moment, she shook her head, forcing a more cheerful expression.

“Well, I still wish to go on that ride, if you’re still amenable?”

“I am,” he said, his cheer just as false.

They both pretended not to notice and set off for the stables.

 

Jaime was in love with Sansa. He had no idea how he hadn’t noticed it before, but now that he had, he was in constant agonies of longing.

It was the gentle, gracious way that she had accepted his relationship with Cersei that awakened him to what he was feeling. The sudden rush of love and the desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her had swept over him like a tidal wave, strong enough that he couldn’t deny it or push it aside without examining it.

But the sudden realisation of his love didn’t make her available to him. He was a Kingsguard, she was his princess. He could be near her and protect her, and even be a friend to her, but she could never be his.

That did not preclude him from being hers.

Cersei stopped kissing him and withdrew her hand from the front of his breeches when he failed to respond, lying limp and pliant on the straw. He hadn’t stopped her, but he wasn’t participating, either.

She regarded him with clear bewilderment. “Jaime? What’s wrong with you? It’s been _months_ , and we’ve only had one opportunity this whole time. We didn’t even get to finish. We’ll be leaving tomorrow. We won’t get another chance.”

He sighed, looking away.

She drew back, her lip curling. “You’re thinking about _her_ , aren’t you? Your _little princess_.”

Jaime shot her a hard look and climbed to his feet, adjusting his clothes and brushing the straw out of his hair.

“She’s a _child_ ,” she spat, her eyes flashing fire.

“She has long since flowered,” he said with deceptive mildness, struggling to keep a rein on his temper. “She will be sixteen in a few months.”

“She’s a child. She will never love you--she can never be to you what we have been to each other,” she said defiantly. “She will marry Joffrey and make him lots of babies and never be anything.”

Jaime accidentally snapped off the drawstring on the door. It wouldn’t latch again until it was fixed. He tossed the useless handle to the ground. Still, the dark, angry feeling bubbled up stronger. It took him a moment to identify it as jealousy.

“She will never be mine--but she won’t marry Joffrey, either,” he said in a low rumble. “She doesn’t want anything to do with him, and I’ll see the Seven Kingdoms turned to ash on the wind before I see her forced to marry him.”

Cersei laughed, bitter and mocking, clasping her hands in her lap. “Ah, I see now. How perfect for you, Jaime. This is just what you always wanted, isn’t it? To pretend to be a gallant knight from one of the songs you loved as a boy--protecting your delicate lady fair from the cold, cruel world. She really is just perfect for your little fantasy. She’s ridiculously sweet and gentle and so, so naive. If she wasn’t the princess, reality would have torn her to pieces long before now,” she said through her bared teeth. “Delicate little flower that she is.”

He felt a trembling heat, a desire to hit her or choke her or scream until his throat bled. He forced himself to ignore it.

“She isn’t a flower,” he growled. “She’s a wolf.”

He threw the door open so hard it slammed against the wall and bounced back, but he was long gone by the time Cersei caught it to keep it from closing her in.

Jaime sought calm, but it evaded him for the rest of the day. Lord Baratheon and Ned Stark had taken Prince Robb, Princess Arya, and the bastard Jon hunting that morning. Tommen and Myrcella were playing with Prince Bran and Rickon and Tyrion, and when he came over to investigate the strange fort they had begun constructing out of blankets, sheets, pillows, and chairs, a wooden sword was thrust through one of the makeshift windows.

“No grownups allowed!” Tommen said, giggling through his attempts at a fierce expression.

“Yeah, no grownups allowed,” Prince Bran agreed, shoving his own wooden sword through the next window.

Tyrion popped up beside him, grinning. “Sorry, Jaime, the Knights of Pillowtown have spoken--you’re not allowed.”

He bent down, peering into the fort sourly. Myrcella was braiding little Prince Rickon’s hair, something he looked very pleased about.

“Then why are you allowed?” he asked, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt. It wasn’t their fault. “You’re a grownup.”

“No, he’s not!” Tommen and Prince Bran said, almost in unison.

“He’s little, like us, except he’ll always be that way, so he gets to play,” Prince Bran explained as though it made perfect sense, despite the fact that at thirteen years old, he was already taller than Tyrion, as was Myrcella.

“Plus he’s funny, and _you’re_ always _grouchy_ , Uncle Jaime,” Tommen said, scrunching up his nose.

Myrcella, ever the peacemaker, spoke up. “Maybe he could be your prisoner,” she suggested. “Prisoners are supposed to be unhappy, and then he could play with us.”

Rickon brightened. “I have some rope we could use!”

The three boys and Tyrion looked only too delighted with that prospect, their eyes gleaming, and Jaime quickly extricated himself.

“Er--thank you, Myrcella, but I think I should go and tend to my duties,” he said, and hastened from the room.

Tyrion’s laughter at his heels did nothing to improve his mood.

Nor was it improved when he found Sansa--she was walking the battlements and she looked beautiful, but Joffrey was at her side, talking and gesturing, and it looked like she was listening this time. Jaime stood rooted in place, because he feared that if he moved, he might beat his own son bloody.

Finally, he turned on his heel and stalked off.

The worst blow of all came that evening, as they were all settling down to yet another feast.

“I wonder whether it might not be well for your wife and son to join you at court,” Sansa said pleasantly to Robert. “Lord Joffrey is certainly of an age to join the court, and I’m certain your lady wife could do with a change of scene.”

Jaime felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over him. He knew he was staring at her with a look of utter betrayal, but he couldn’t help it. She had said she didn’t want Joffrey--he was going to help her stay away from him--and now she was talking with him and arranging for him to come to the capital? Jaime knew he didn’t have the right, as he had no claim to her, but he felt rejected, cast aside.

She met his eyes once, her expression flickering with confusion, and turned away. He barely touched the food and excused himself as early as he could.

He couldn’t sleep, either, and spent most of the night pacing his chamber and rubbing his chest, trying to ease the ache.

 

Ser Jaime wouldn’t speak to Sansa the next morning as the party set off on the Kingsroad once again, heading back south. She was at a loss to account for his sullen behaviour, but she could not yet question him over it, as they hadn’t had a moment of privacy.

Everyone was excited by her seeming acceptance of Joffrey, so all of them wanted to talk to her, including Joffrey. She had known that was an unfortunate side effect of her suggestion last night, and made every effort to respond coolly, making her indifference to him clear. The mixed signals confused everyone, so it wasn’t long before Joffrey went off to vent his temper on someone else.

That made her feel guilty. The whole thing did, really. Her only consolation was that she hadn’t done it for herself.

Three days passed with little change--her parents and Lord Baratheon bewildered and disappointed by her blatant disinterest in Joffrey, he himself petulant and throwing tantrums as though that would woo her, Ser Jaime sullen and silent, and only Cersei seeming pleased, smiling smugly. At long last, Sansa found herself alone with Ser Jaime. She had stopped to let her horse drink from a creek and to stretch her legs, and he had dismounted and joined her while the rest of the party continued on.

He stood a little apart from her, his eyes trained on the opposite bank. His face was pale and taut.

Sansa hesitantly stepped closer to him, noting how he stiffened. “Ser Jaime, may I speak to you?”

He still wouldn’t look at her. “You are the princess. You may do as you please,” he said curtly.

That stung. She put a hand on her horse’s neck so she had something else to focus on besides his stony face.

“I wish you would tell me what I have done to displease you,” she said, earnest but quiet as she anticipated silence or another curt reply. “Your friendship is dear to me. I should hate myself if I had lost it.”

He didn’t answer for so long that she had accepted the silence as his response, and it made her jump when he spoke.

“I thought you disliked Joffrey.”

She couldn’t read his tone. She looked up and found him studying her with hurt confusion that she was at a loss to explain.

“I do,” she said honestly. “I am hopeful that he will find another maiden to woo in the capital--there are so many of us, many of them prettier than me.”

His face twisted as though he wished to argue, but it settled after a moment. “Wouldn’t it have been more likely if you had let him remain at Storm’s End?”

Sansa blushed, biting her lip and averting her eyes. “Yes, but…then I would have had no reason to ask Lord Baratheon to bring your sister to the capital.”

When she looked up again, Ser Jaime was staring at her incredulously, his mouth open.

“You…. You wanted _Cersei_ in the capital,” he said hoarsely.

She fiddled with the reins in her hands self-consciously. “I thought that…. I mean, it must be difficult for you to spend any time together when she is usually in the Stormlands and you are in the capital, so I thought….”

She trailed off, tilting her head. His shoulders were shaking and he had covered his face with one hand. She heard a wheeze and flushed with hurt and embarrassment when she realised that he was laughing.

Her lips thinned and she tossed the reins over her horse’s neck, gripping the saddle as she prepared to mount up.

A strong hand on her elbow pulled her back and whirled her around. Jaime easily batted her other hand aside when she made to push him away, hauling her up against him. He wasn’t laughing anymore, just smiling. Sansa tried to calm her breathing, but found herself distracted. He was so very close, and she could feel his warm breath on her face, and see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the sprinkling of stubble on his jaw, the softness of his lips.

He brushed a lock of hair back from her face and she tried not to shiver.

“You did that for me?” he asked tenderly.

She nodded, but couldn’t gather her scattered thoughts enough to speak.

He looked at her like she was a rare, precious thing, his grip on her gentling until he was almost cradling her.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he said softly. “I have ended things with Cersei. I’m going to try to do better by my vows.” He paused, his eyes bright. “But I appreciate the thought more than I can say. For you to accept me the way you have…I am honoured that you consider me a friend, and I hope I’m not overstepping by returning the sentiment.”

She bit her lip to contain her grin and shook her head. “No, you’re not overstepping, Jaime. Not at all,” she said shyly.

His eyes went to her lips and she watched them darken. With visible reluctance, he set her on her feet, putting distance between them. Sansa knew then, with dizzying, bittersweet joy, that he loved her, too.

He helped her back into the saddle and she waited for him to mount his own horse. They exchanged a look before returning to the road, the understanding between them unspoken.

 

Jaime was able to find some amusement in Joffrey’s antics now that he was sure that Sansa had no intention of accepting him. He knew there would be others--she was the princess, so her hand was too valuable in forging a political alliance for her to remain unmarried forever. But for the time being, she was his, at least as much as she could ever be. She loved him, he had seen it, written clear in her eyes. They could never be, so knowing that she loved him would have to be enough.

The return trip to King’s Landing was entirely too short for his tastes. He could have spent every day riding beside Sansa for the rest of his life. The others groaned with relief when the spires of the Red Keep became visible on the horizon; he and Sansa exchanged a glance and said nothing.

It didn’t help that returning to the capital meant a week of endless parties and festivities--a week of watching Sansa from afar, rather than by her side. His only source of comfort was the tournament. He was looking forward to it eagerly, itching to beat someone senseless in an arena where such behaviour was acceptable. Although the one person he really wanted to hit, his sister, wouldn’t be allowed to participate, though she would trade her skirts for armour in an instant if she was invited. He would have to settle for venting his spleen on her fat, stupid husband instead. Once upon a time, Jaime would have worried about encountering Lord Baratheon in the field--but not now. He would undoubtedly show up drunk, as always, and be easy enough to turn on his back like a turtle.

Princess Arya made her desire to join the tournament known, but her father declared her too young, much to her obvious disappointment and the court’s pride and amusement. Prince Robb was participating for the first time, which probably destroyed anyone else’s chances of winning. Jaime had never thrown a match before, but he feared the consequences if he, the Kingslayer, rode down the Crown Prince and accidentally killed him. A draw was probably the best he could hope for. As it was, he would have to spend the entirety of the melee protecting the prince rather than collecting hits of his own. He was reasonably sure he could defeat Prince Robb with a sword without doing any permanent damage, though, so at least he still might win there, assuming Barristan didn’t join this particular tournament. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Cersei came to see him before the opening of the tournament, as Jaime was preparing for the melee.

He glared as soon as he saw her, which only seemed to amuse her.

“It’s been such a joy to watch you pining after your little princess the past month,” she said, her eyes alight with glee. “Are you really going to compete without her favour? Won’t that spoil your little fantasy? What kind of lady fair doesn’t send her gallant knight off to battle with a token for luck?”

He ground his jaw. “Why aren’t you with your dearly beloved husband, giving him _your_ favour?”

That soured her expression. “Robert’s busy drinking his way through his dear royal friend’s wine cellar. He doesn’t need any more luck than that.”

“And all the luck I need is this,” he said, drawing his blade in a flash.

Cersei rolled her eyes. “Men and your toys. Enjoy your play time with the other idiots.”

She left in a swirl of skirts, leaving him to shake off the sting of being called an idiot, again.

Jaime was still fuming when his squire arrived to tell him it was time to go. He marched toward the field with a scowl that must have been ferocious, given how people scrambled to move out of his way. He had nearly reached it, his squire desperately trying to make a few last-minute adjustments while nearly running to keep up, when a clear voice called out, halting him in his tracks.

“Ser Jaime!”

He turned and was utterly helpless to stop the smile that bloomed on his face when he saw her. Sansa was always beautiful, but she was a vision today, her hair arranged in spectacular braids threaded with tiny rubies. Her dress was gold, embroidered with red flowers--Jaime’s smile widened when he realised she was wearing Lannister colours. She reached his side, breathless from the crowds but matching his smile.

“I almost missed you,” she said, her eyes sparkling like the sea in the noon sun. “I spent too long with my steward.”

She had hired a steward to look after her poor in her absence and to run her house for the disreputable poor. The man was dull but trustworthy and capable.

Jaime restrained himself from touching her by the slimmest margin, all too aware of the crowds milling around them.

She raised her hand to her waist, and he suddenly spotted the cloth she was clutching--a scarf in white and silver, with a direwolf head embroidered in the middle. Her smile turned shy when he looked up in surprise.

“I wished to give you this token for good fortune in the tournament--if you would be so kind to consent to carry it,” she said, blushing a becoming pink.

Jaime thought his heart might leap from his chest. He was certain he looked a fool, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“My Princess, it would be my very great honour--and _pleasure_ to carry your favour in the battles to come,” he said formally, though he was grinning too widely to give the speech its usual gravity and solemnity.

She bit her lip to contain her own smile and helped him tie the scarf around his upper arm, tucking the ends so it wouldn’t provide an opponent with an easy handhold. She curtsied prettily when it was done and went back towards the stands. He watched her all the way to the steps--she turned and smiled sweetly at him one last time, and Jaime turned to the field, pulling his helmet on with determination.

 

Sansa always enjoyed the tournaments--all the knights in their bright armour, the colourful banners, the wonderful food, the lively music. Injuries or casualties were occasions for solemn prayer, but they didn’t dampen the overall festive spirit. The only reason she had requested not to have a tournament of her own when she first arrived was because she hadn’t wanted to pull her parents away from their duties so soon after they had finished settling another dispute between Dorne and the Westerlands. She had longed for a tournament, but her desire to be less selfish than she had been thus far in her life had restrained her.

This time, for the first time in her life, Sansa found the tournament to be a cause for anxiety. She wrung her hands all through the melee, occasionally gasping, almost jumping out of her chair when Robb and Jaime, fighting side by side, disappeared from view. They eventually emerged again, and Sansa’s mother took one of her hands and squeezed it, mistaking her terror for concern for her brother. Her mother was just as terrified for Robb as she thought Sansa to be, so she squeezed back.

Robb’s team was victorious, with Robb scoring the most hits, and Lord Robert not far behind. Jaime was somewhere in the middle, and he looked distinctly perturbed about it.

Sansa made her way to his tent afterwards, as soon as she could slip away from her family. He looked up when the flap opened, glaring, but his expression softened immediately when he registered it was her. His armour was already off and his squire was wrapping his wrist diligently, though he sketched a wide-eyed bow when he saw Sansa.

Her brow wrinkled and she crossed to them. “You’re hurt.”

Jaime flashed her a crooked grin, bright with pride and bravado. “Not at all, my Princess. I’m merely indulging an overly fussy maester. Pycelle is convinced that I strained my wrist when Loras Tyrell got hold of my shield, but I assure you, it’s perfectly sound.”

She searched his expression before letting out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad. I was so very worried for you--but I ought not to have been. You’re such a skilled warrior. You managed to do so well despite being hampered by protecting my brother.”

He preened, his eyes shining. “You noticed that, did you?” he asked, satisfaction lifting his tone.

She smiled, inwardly amused by his display of male pride. “Of course. Ser Gregor would have flattened Robb if you hadn’t stepped in, among others.”

“Well, I am still part of the Kingsguard, even during a tournament in Lannister armour,” he drawled, undoubtedly looking to make certain she was impressed while also justifying his--in his eyes--poor performance. “I’m duty-bound to prevent anyone from flattening our Prince.”

Sansa indulged him--no one else would, and she truly did admire him. He deserved a little petting after what he’d just gone through. She laid a hand lightly on his “wounded” wrist when the squire moved on to laying out his clothes.

“Of course you are, everyone knows that,” she cooed soothingly. “This tournament is unfair to you because you have to hold back. You’re still doing marvellously well. And no one could be more proud of you than I am.” She dropped a feather-light kiss on his cheek. “My brave lion.”

He seemed to puff up and melt at the same time, and she left him still smiling dazedly.

The next three days were better, as the knights who hadn’t been eliminated or withdrawn after the melee took to single combat with the sword. This was Jaime’s strength, and Sansa clapped enthusiastically every time he won, even against the stumbling drunk Lord Robert, ignoring the looks from her family. He dipped his sword to her and bowed in response, and he wore a wide grin whenever he removed his helmet.

He had only four problems out of all the knights he faced. The first was Sandor Clegane. Most of Jaime’s matches were under two minutes, as his foes were dramatically outmatched in strength, speed, and skill. The Hound, from what Sansa could tell, had some skill and some speed, but he made up for his deficiencies with great strength and height--Jaime was by no means a short man, but both of the Cleganes still towered even over him. For the first time since the sword matches began, Sansa saw Jaime struggle.

His movements slowed and became more defensive as he bought himself space, calculating how to get through the Hound’s defences without ending up with the blunted blade buried in the breastplate of his armour.

The crowds booed both of them, for the most part--Jaime was a Lannister, and the Hound was one of their vassals. A few Westermen took up the cry for Jaime, but they were soon hushed by their annoyed neighbours.

Jaime won after a few minutes--a few well-placed blows, slipped in when Jaime darted in and out before the Hound could circle fast enough--but even Sansa’s untrained eye could see that the winning blow was unearned. The Hound simply dropped his guard and allowed the strike he should have been able to parry easily.

It didn’t matter why to the booing, disappointed crowd, but Sansa suspected that it was because of the fact that he was technically one of Tywin’s bannermen. He had allowed his liege lord’s son to win. The thought was confirmed when Jaime stormed off the field after a hushed conversation with the Hound, clearly furious.

The fight with the Mountain was worse. Ser Gregor, who was even bigger than his brother, didn’t even start out trying, as the Hound had. It was immediately apparent that he had no intention of actually fighting Jaime, parrying like he was swatting flies and moving slowly, never even trying to land his own blows.

Jaime lost his temper and went at him with a vengeance, knocking him off his feet and beating him until his helmet went flying. His blows were so fast the eye couldn’t follow, but so strong that he left dents in Ser Gregor’s armour. It was rapid and brutal, and Sansa wasn’t the only one frightened. He only stopped when the crowd fell silent, yanking off his own helmet.

Sansa couldn’t hide the horror on her face at the violence and savagery he had just displayed. Jaime paled when their eyes met.

No one said a word.

Slowly, dropping his gaze with visible shame, Jaime bowed and left the field.

She went to him after the day’s matches were over. He dismissed his squire and wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry I frightened you, my Princess,” he said lowly, staring at his fist on the armrest. “I--”

She knelt beside him, silencing him with a light touch. “You are a warrior, Jaime,” she said gently. “In a real battle, your anger may just be the thing that saves you. I think I’m the one who should apologise--I’m unused to seeing that side of you. You’re always so gentle with me,” she added with a fond smile.

He softened, finally meeting her gaze. “I’m trying to behave more…honourably for you.”

“You always behave honourably,” she assured him, wrapping her fingers around his thumb as lightly as she could. “He threw the fight. I understand. I would have lost my temper, too, I imagine.” She let her hand fall. “We’re none of us perfect. We all have our dark sides.”

Jaime touched her chin with one finger, so softly she could barely feel it. They were both afraid of crossing the invisible boundaries that kept them from one another.

“You don’t,” he said simply.

She ducked her head, pleased and sheepish. “I do. I can be selfish, and petty, at times. I used to let my friends call Arya ‘Horseface’ when we were younger because I was jealous that Father liked her better. I was unkind to Jon because I knew Mother didn’t like him. I used to pout and sulk when I didn’t get my way. I know that I still have those tendencies when I’m overly tired or upset about something else. I try not to, but I’m sure I don’t always succeed.”

He chuckled. “I kill men, and you pout and call them names. Indeed, your dark side is chilling, Sansa. I’m quaking with fear.”

She laughed, blushing. “Don’t mock me! It’s still not worthy of a princess.”

Jaime just smiled and looked at her like he was trying to memorise her face.

The next day came the other two fights that gave him trouble. Robb had been steadily laying waste to his competition, and the two of them were finally set against one another. Jaime had the opposite problem with Robb that he’d had with the Cleganes--it was almost immediately apparent to Sansa that he had Robb outmatched several times over. He was drawing the fight out, purposely not finishing Robb. The only thing Sansa couldn’t decide was whether it was because he wanted the defeat to seem less embarrassing for Robb, or if he simply couldn’t decide how to disarm her brother without risking harm to him.

Robb’s irritation was growing more and more obvious as well. Jaime finally seemed to notice it and rushed him, knocking the sword out of his hand and kicking his legs out from under him. Robb yielded with ill grace that didn’t seem to please the crowd--but they cheered loudly for Jaime when Sansa stood and applauded his victory. Jaime removed his helmet and grinned at her, lifting his arm to kiss the scarf wrapped around it.

Her parents looked at her askance then, but Sansa ignored them, smiling brightly at her knight.

The fourth problem Jaime encountered was Ser Barristan Selmy. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had abstained from the melee, but he had entered the sword segment of the tournament and demolished the competition easily. Sansa could see Jaime’s nervousness from the moment the older knight took the field, and she clutched at her armrests as her own anxiety rose.

Ser Barristan was ageing, but he was clearly still the mightiest swordsman in Westeros. Jaime held his own for a long time, but it was clear that Ser Barristan had the edge. Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat every time the old knight got in a hit, the clang resounding and Jaime visibly staggering from it. He got in two hits of his own, a testament to his own great skill, but in the end, it was Ser Barristan who scored the six hits required to win the match.

Jaime lost gracefully, bowing to Ser Barristan. He even seemed pleased, Sansa thought, smiling through his obvious exhaustion. She applauded both knights for their skill and honour right along with the crowd. Jaime grinned at her, sweat dripping from his face and hair, his eyes alight.

 

Sansa came to him again after the sword part of the tournament had ended.

Jaime flashed her a smile. “No interest in the archers, my Princess?”

The archery had begun and would finish the next morning. It was largely populated by lesser knights--those like Jaime, who were more skilled, preferred to rest between the swords and the joust, rather than wasting their energy on the less prestigious archery contest.

She bit her lip, her eyes trailing down his chest where his shirt was parted, displaying the beginnings of a few bruises, courtesy of Ser Barristan. He straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin proudly. He was happy to bear the marks--it had been an honest fight, honourable and well-contested. He felt no shame in losing to one such as Ser Barristan, who was still a hero of his, despite his personal disdain for Jaime.

“The archery is pleasant enough, but I didn’t wish to miss the chance to--” She stopped, raising worried eyes to his. “Are you all right?”

He softened at her gentle concern. He wasn’t sure why the Gods had seen fit to bless him with her, but he thanked them all the same--even if she could never truly be his.

His squire made himself scarce. Jaime made a mental note to get the boy’s name and keep him on. Good squires were hard to come by.

“I am well,” he assured her. “A few bruises, but nothing serious.”

Her face smoothed and her lips turned up with relief. “I was sorry you lost, but you fought very well.”

He inclined his head. “If I had to lose, Ser Barristan is the most worthy of it. I would rather lose with honour than win without,” he added, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone at the thought of the Cleganes.

Neither of them had been the least bit remorseful for letting him win, nor bothered in the slightest by Jaime’s rage.

“I take orders from your father,” Sandor had said gruffly. “Not you.”

Then he’d turned back to his ale and proceeded to completely ignore Jaime. He’d left even more frustrated than before, with a feeling of impotence that he hated all the more for its familiarity.

Sansa brought him back to the present with one of her light touches--just a brush of fingers across his shoulder, but he felt it more keenly than any sword.

“You lost and won, but you did nothing without honour,” she said, a hint of steel in her tone that indicated she would not tolerate argument.

Jaime inclined his head, smiling crookedly, and let the matter pass.

“How do you think you will fare in the joust tomorrow?” she asked, her pleasure and anxiety at the prospect warring in her eyes.

He felt a responding warmth unfurl in his chest. He was unused to having anyone worry about him. His father demanded perfection and expressed only disdain over injuries. Cersei had always been too jealous of his ability to participate to care that he might be hurt. Even Tyrion didn’t worry--at least not openly enough for Jaime to notice. He drank and he made jokes and he bet on Jaime to win. He was, as far as Jaime could tell, too confident in his older brother’s abilities to worry that he might be hurt, which was at least kinder than his father and twin’s reasons for not worrying about him.

Impulsively, he took Sansa’s hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Jousting is not my greatest strength, but I am more than capable,” he said, stating the facts without his usual arrogance when questioned on his abilities. “I should not meet anyone I can’t handle in the lists tomorrow. I won’t have to face Lord Baratheon until the day after, and Ser Loras on the final day, and they’re the only ones who have been able to unhorse me with any regularity. Accidents do happen and other knights have got lucky before, but I don’t believe there is any cause for concern tomorrow.”

Her brow wrinkled. “And my brother? When will you be facing him?”

He hesitated. “It…depends on how well he does. I have never seen him joust, as I don’t typically oversee him on the training ground. I have heard he has…some skill, so it will most likely be the day after tomorrow, or possibly the final day, if he does _very_ well.”

Her frown deepened and her hand tightened around his. “You’re going to let him win, aren’t you?”

He groped for words, but his silence was all the answer she needed.

“Oh, please, Jaime, you mustn’t let him hurt you!” she cried, clutching his hand with both of hers, her eyes reddening as they welled. “What if you fall wrong? You could be killed!”

He smiled ruefully. “I can’t ride down the Crown Prince.”

Sansa’s tears spilled over. “But _he_ won’t hold back, you _know_ he won’t!”

“It’s not as though I _want_ to be knocked off my horse,” he pointed out dryly. “I’m going to attempt not to be hit at all.”

“Why can’t you just withdraw from the joust?” she asked thickly, her chin wobbling. “Ser Barristan only took part in the swords and no one thinks less of him!”

“Ser Barristan has a lifetime of bravery and great deeds behind him,” Jaime said, a slight edge in his voice that he couldn’t conceal. “No one would dare question his honour or valour, and rightly so. It’s somewhat different for a man whose only known deed is stabbing his king in the back.”

Something like pain rippled over her face and she sat beside him, still holding his hand.

“A mad king,” she said softly. “ _The_ Mad King. I don’t--”

She stopped, looking away.

“Don’t what?” he asked stiffly.

He couldn’t take more condemnation over it--not from her.

She took a deep breath before she met his gaze. “I don’t believe my father that you only killed him because your father had shown up and switched sides, so you felt betrayal was the safer bet. I’ve seen the way you behave, and I don’t believe it. I think there was more to it. I don’t need to know what it was in order to have faith in you.”

Jaime’s mouth fell open and he gaped at her for so long that she blushed.

No one-- _no one_ \--had given him the benefit of the doubt after he killed the Mad King. His father was pleased and assumed it was simply obedience and loyalty to the family, since he was obviously busy sacking the city at the time. His siblings assumed much the same. And Ned Stark, of course, had cursed him as a man without honour, so no one who followed thought twice before writing him off as untrustworthy, a coward and an oath-breaker whose only true allegiance was to his own skin.

But not Sansa. Even after seeing him having sex with his own sister, she _believed_ in him. With no reason to doubt the general opinion, she ignored it and _had faith_ in him.

“I will withdraw from the joust if you wish it,” he said hoarsely.

He would cross the Narrow Sea and find her a dragon egg, or go beyond the Wall and bring her a giant’s head, if she asked it of him. He would throw himself _off_ the Wall, if she wished it. He loved her more than life.

Sansa flashed him a pleased smile, but shook her head. “I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you feel is dishonourable. Just promise me you won’t get hurt?”

He smiled and took the liberty of kissing her knuckles again. “I will do everything in my power to avoid any injury to my person, my Princess. I swear it.”

He carried her smile with him for the rest of the day, unperturbed even by Cersei’s sneering at dinner. He agreed to escort Tyrion back to his rooms equitably, a state that did not go unnoticed, despite his little brother’s intoxication.

“You’re in a good mood,” he said with the air of someone realising something for the first time. He pointed an accusatory finger at Jaime. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

He shrugged, then quickly reached out and snagged Tyrion’s sleeve, preventing him from taking a tumble down the stairs.

“Is it a crime for me to be happy?” he asked mildly.

Tyrion stopped walking abruptly, his mouth dropping open.

Jaime raised his brows in silent question.

“You said _happy_ ,” Tyrion said, flabbergasted. “You used the word _happy_ \--in reference to yourself!”

Jaime’s smile widened. “Maybe I am happy.”

“You can’t be! Cersei isn’t happy, so how could you be happy?”

“Cersei is never happy--though that isn’t my problem anymore.”

That startled him enough to make him fall silent all the way back to his room. Jaime helped him crawl onto a lounge chair and draped a blanket over him.

Tyrion peered at him blearily. “This sudden change wouldn’t have anything to do with that direwolf scarf you’ve been keeping on your person at all times since the start of the tourney, would it?”

He reached out and tugged on the silver cloth wrapped around Jaime’s wrist. Jaime gently pulled it out of his grip, smoothing the soft fabric.

They looked at each other and said nothing. Tyrion nodded after a moment, his expression turning sympathetic.

“Good night, Tyrion,” he said quietly.

“Good night, Jaime.”

 

Sansa spent most of the next three days a ball of nerves, twisting her fingers round and round her handkerchief as she watched the knights on their charging horses. Her heart lodged itself in her throat every time Jaime rode up to the lists, his red and gold armour shining in the sun, her white and silver scarf fluttering on his right arm, his blunted lance straight and long, painted in spiralled gold and white.

He triumphed all through the first day, easily bearing hedge knights and young, inexperienced knights to the ground. The second day brought greater challenges, but not the one Sansa had been dreading--Lord Baratheon had withdrawn that morning after his first trip to the lists landed him flat on his back, too drunk and fat to rise, let alone mount his horse. Jaime took two hits the whole day, but never lost his seat and ended the day triumphant.

The final day of the tournament brought the two most nerve-wracking encounters. Jaime entered the lists against Robb for the first time.

Her brother didn’t seem to be aware that he’d been doing so well because everyone else was too afraid of accidentally killing their prince to give him a fair fight. His demeanour was distinctly smug as he rode up to face Jaime. Sansa thought her parents might actually look disapproving of him for once, but the expression was so fleeting that she wasn’t sure.

Jaime’s aspect was grim. Sansa waved her handkerchief at him when he looked her way, and she thought he might have smiled, though his helmet made it difficult to see. He hefted his lance and circled around to face Robb.

Sansa pressed her fingers to her mouth and reminded herself to breathe. A touch to her shoulder made her jump, and she turned to find her mother smiling at her encouragingly.

“They won’t harm one another. Robb is the prince, and he wouldn’t injure one of his own guard--and Ser Jaime is a Kingsguard. He won’t do anything to put your brother in jeopardy,” she assured her, but there was fear in her eyes.

Sansa took her hand and clasped it tightly in lieu of words.

The flag fell and the excited screams of the crowd nearly drowned out the dull rumble of the horses’ hooves in the dirt. The two lances swung down until they were nearly level with the ground. The riders leaned forward, almost hunched over their horses’ necks.

The crowd sent up a disappointed cry as the two horses passed one another without the crunch of wood on metal--no contact.

Sansa squeezed her mother’s hand as Jaime and Robb slowed their horses and circled back to their starting positions. One round was through, two left to go. Her heart was racing, and she reminded herself again to breathe.

The second tilt was much the same, except that she distinctly heard a short scrape as they passed one another. No one else seemed to notice, but Sansa spotted the missing paint from the end of Jaime’s lance. He had made contact with Robb’s armour or shield and deliberately turned his lance so that it glanced off.

Robb must have noticed, too, because she saw him hesitate before returning to his starting point, watching Jaime. He turned away without saying anything, and they prepared for the third tilt.

Sansa could feel her pulse in her teeth as they rounded on each other for the last time. The crowd was practically howling with anticipation. Jaime’s horse, a stocky grey that he rode regularly, was unbothered by the noise, flicking his tail and keeping his ears forward. Robb’s horse, however, was a young but tall chestnut that Robb had chosen new for the tournament, as he was flashy and attractive. The young stallion half-reared, backing from the noise of the crowd, and it took Robb and his squire a moment to wheel him around again. The wait only made Sansa’s anxiety rise, her breaths coming shallow.

At last, they were both facing one another squarely and the flag dropped. The two horses charged, the combatants lowering their lances. Sansa firmly suppressed the urge to wince as they bore down on one another, Jaime’s lance swinging wide of Robb. Robb’s aim was true--but Jaime leaned back and away, and the lance slid harmlessly off of his gold and red shield, unbroken, as they passed one another.

“The match is a draw!” the herald announced.

Sansa let out a long, relieved sigh, sitting back in her chair. Her mother smiled and patted her hand, and they both applauded as Jaime and Robb rode by, saluting the king with their lances.

There was a short break between the last two matches--both Robb and Jaime would have to face Ser Loras Tyrell, who was undefeated in the tournament thus far. The two matches would settle the winner of the joust unless they both beat Ser Loras, in which case they would have to face each other again. Sansa took the opportunity to slip back to the tents to check on Jaime.

He was in relatively good spirits, pleased that he’d managed to hold Robb to a draw without injury to either of them.

“It was a good match,” she agreed, trying to hide how frightened she’d been. “I only wish you didn’t have to face Ser Loras.”

He smiled at her again--not his sarcastic, arrogant smile that he showed to the rest of the world. This one was tender and warm, and only for her. She felt a corresponding surge of affection and struggled with the urge to go to him and wrap herself in his arms.

“It’s only one more match, and then it will all be over,” he said, all gentle reassurance. “I have every intention of remaining unharmed.”

She let out a shuddering breath. “It’s hard to believe that I ever longed for tournaments. I will be glad when it’s over.”

“I won’t,” he said frankly, regret softening the words. “I haven’t been this happy in…since I can’t remember when. Competing as your champion has been an unparalleled joy. Someone even wished me luck yesterday, which hasn’t happened since I was sixteen--didn’t they, Podrick?”

His squire seemed sheepish under their attention, but he nodded. “Yes, my lord. Several people, in fact.”

Her brow wrinkled. “I’m glad, but weren’t they booing you during the swords?”

He grinned. “They were, but increasingly, they cheer. Podrick tells me that word is spreading that I’m riding for you, and so your popularity becomes mine.”

She felt her cheeks heat. “Oh.” She looked away for a moment. “I wish they would cheer you for yourself. I wish they saw you as you are.”

He took her hand and looked at her with warm eyes. “ _You_ cheer for me, and that is all I need.”

She clasped his calloused fingers and lost the struggle not to smile.

 

Jaime watched the match between Prince Robb and Loras from the sidelines, unsure of what outcome he preferred. A large part of him wanted to see the smug prince knocked on his polished behind. Loras had a reputation to uphold, Renly was watching him from the stands, and he lacked Jaime’s murdering-royalty baggage. There was no reason for him _not_ to do his best.

However, no matter how irritating he was being and how much Jaime wanted to smack the smile off his face, he was still Sansa’s brother, and Jaime didn’t want any grief to come to her. He would rather endure the prince’s smugness for the rest of eternity than see her lose a loved one.

“Care for a wager?” Tyrion asked brightly as Loras and the prince made last-minute adjustments to their armour.

Jaime smiled and shook his head. “This one’s too close to call, I’ll pass.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he teased. “You’re a knight--you’re _supposed_ to take risks and enjoy the thrill of victory, revel in the lows of defeat, all of that.”

He leaned against the rail, shrugging good-naturedly. “I’ve had enough adventure this week, even if my purse wasn’t empty.”

Tyrion’s brows rose and he looked up from his wine. “Empty _again_? What _are_ you spending your money on? Gifts for your princess? Assassination attempts on our sweet sister?”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Yes, again; food; no, I would never compromise her honour by being so indiscreet; and no, there’s a large divide between breaking off relations with Cersei and actively trying to murder her.”

He absorbed that for a moment. “Well, you may want to invest in a taster, because the way Cersei has been looking at youduring this tournament, I wouldn’t put it past her to be sending assassins after _you_.”

Jaime snorted and didn’t deign to reply.

“How much are you eating that you’re spending all of your money on food every month? Are you trying to overtake Cersei’s beloved Robert in weight?”

“I didn’t say it was food for _me_.”

Realisation dawned and Tyrion chuckled. “Ah, I see--you’ve been helping Princess Sansa to feed her orphans and widows.”

“Keep your voice down, please, she doesn’t know,” Jaime said coolly. “No one but her steward knows.”

His brows rose again. “You didn’t use this opportunity to show off your kind and generous nature?”

“She’s doing good things for the people,” he said uncomfortably, turning his gaze back to the field. “I don’t want to make it about me.”

Tyrion opened his mouth, but whatever he said was lost in the noise as Prince Robb and Loras finally lined up to face one another, pulling their visors down. The flag dropped and that quickly, they were charging at one another. Jaime’s hands clenched on the rail, and then he heard the crunch of wood on metal. The Crown Prince went backwards off his horse, tumbling head over heels, and landed heavily in the dirt.

The crowd sounded as torn as Jaime felt, some cheering for Loras’s swift, decisive victory, while others cried out in astonishment and concern for their prince. Most of them were stunned into silence.

Jaime was over the rail and running to Prince Robb’s side before anyone else recovered. He heard the herald declaring Loras’s victory as he reached the prince’s side.

Prince Robb moaned and tried to lift his head as Jaime knelt beside him.

“Lie still, my Prince,” Jaime said curtly, easing Prince Robb’s helmet off.

There was no blood, which was a good sign, and the prince looked dazed, but he clearly recognised Jaime. He shifted, trying to get his arms underneath him. Jaime placed a firm hand on his back and spoke sharply.

“ _Wait_ for the maester and the stretcher bearers, my Prince.”

Prince Robb relaxed a little this time. “Remind me never to let a Tyrell join my Kingsguard,” he croaked unhappily.

Jaime chuckled despite himself. “Noted, my Prince.”

The prince peered up at him, his brow furrowing. “I know you let me win, Kingslayer.”

“Technically, it was a draw,” Jaime said, deliberately careless.

“You know what I mean,” he shot back.

Jaime was saved from answering by the arrival of the maester and the stretcher bearers. Barristan and Meryn were right behind them, relieving Jaime to go and prepare for his own match. He headed for the royal box first, bowing when he was in range.

“Your son seemed to be in no immediate danger, Your Grace,” he said, though the Queen had already risen to follow them. “He was speaking clearly and was cognizant of his surroundings.”

Queen Catelyn’s face softened ever so slightly. “Thank you, Ser Jaime.”

He bowed again and moved aside to let her pass. When he straightened, he caught Sansa’s eye and smiled faintly. She tried to smile back, but her worry was clear, her face pale and her teeth nibbling at her lip. He turned away, headed to his tent, his blood already singing with anticipation.

Podrick looked nervous, but his hands were sure as he fitted Jaime’s armour into place.

Jaime smiled, arrogant and fierce. “Don’t worry so much, Podrick. I’ve been doing this since I was sixteen--no one has killed me yet.”

Podrick forced a wan smile. “Yes, ser.” He paused, as though he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to say his next thought. “Good luck, ser.”

To anyone else, Jaime would have said something flippant, like “Only amateurs need luck,” but the young squire seemed so sincerely concerned that he didn’t have the heart to brush him off.

He put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Podrick. I’ll be speaking to your lord after this is all over--I’d like to keep you on permanently.”

Podrick turned red, grinning.

Jaime smiled to himself and walked out, the faithful squire hurrying after him.

Loras was doing his usual prancing around before the crowd when he rode onto the field. He gave a rose to a girl sitting in front of Renly and generally made a spectacle of himself. Jaime rolled his eyes and held his hand out for his lance.

Queen Catelyn had returned to the stands, so despite his absence, Jaime gathered that the prince’s injuries were not serious. It gave him some relief--though Sansa was visibly fretting, watching him with a furrowed brow and twisting the ends of her sleeves in her lap. His heart beat faster at her nearly tangible concern for him, and his eyes were for her alone when he and Loras rode up to the royal box to pay courtesy.

The two of them were experienced fighters on experienced horses, so it was the matter of a few minutes for them to take their positions, ready for the flag. It dropped at a signal from the king, and both knights spurred their mounts.

Jaime didn’t hear the crowd or the noise as he bore down on Loras, utterly focused on the ornately decorated chest that was his target. A split second before they hit, he tightened his grip on the lance and tilted his head back and away to protect his eyes.

The impact jolted him half out of his seat as his lance found its mark--and so did Loras’s, breaking against his shield. He recovered his seat quickly enough as they rode past one another, but his heart was racing and his left hand felt weak on the reins. He circled back to Podrick with rather less swagger.

“Check the left arm, Podrick,” he said quietly as he pulled up beside him.

Podrick obeyed, the crowd murmuring restlessly while they waited for the knights to reset and the field to be cleared of the splinters from the broken lances.

“Ser Loras’s squire is checking his breastplate,” Podrick said in an undertone. “You got him good.”

Jaime grimaced. “He got me good, too. You’re sure there are no splinters, nothing pulled too tight?”

He shook his head, his brow wrinkling. “No, there’s nothing, Ser Jaime. Does it feel wrong?”

He rolled his left wrist and shook his head. “Nothing to be done about it. Lance.”

He turned his horse round and took hold of the lance when Podrick held it up. Loras was adequately recovered from the blow he’d received, if his prancing around was any indication. Sansa was watching Jaime, white-faced, while her mother patted her hand and whispered in her ear.

The flag fell a second time and they charged again. Jaime’s attention was divided, as it was more of a struggle to keep his horse going straight with his grip weaker than usual. His lance was off target when they reached each other--Loras’s was not. He struggled to stay in the saddle as the lance pounded across his chest, rolling back so that it scraped off his breastplate and into the open air over his shoulder, unbroken.

Jaime tamped down on his frustration as he wheeled around to ready for the third tilt. If he could remain focused, he could still pull off a draw. His left arm was starting to ache, a throbbing a couple of inches below his shoulder that he struggled to ignore, forcing his hand to tighten on the reins.

His right hand was strong and steady on the lance, but his left hand was taking too much of his concentration. He blew out a breath and tried to compensate by directing the horse with his legs as much as possible, sacrificing some of his mobility in the seat. It was far from an ideal solution, but it would have to do.

The flag dropped for the third time and Jaime gritted his teeth as he kicked his horse into motion. Loras was looking to finish this quickly, it seemed, as he approached faster than last time. Jaime brought his lance to bear, but Loras was quicker.

His lance slipped out of his hand as the impact against his shield knocked him out of the saddle. He tumbled, weightless for a split second before he slammed into the ground, the second impact knocking the air out of his lungs. He lay there, gasping like a landed fish, for a moment--he coughed, and the air finally came rushing back into his lungs on the next gasp. The pain rushed in right along with the air, and he rolled off of his left side immediately.

His left arm was beyond throbbing now, screaming with every beat of his heart as it made it known how very much it had not appreciated being caught between the ground and his shield, and the weight of his body and armour.

Someone pulled off his helmet--it took him a moment to bring Sansa’s face into focus, but when he recognised her, he smiled.

“Jaime? Jaime, speak to me,” she said urgently.

She was stroking his face and she sounded so worried about him, and he thought it was worth being unhorsed.

“I think I broke my promise,” he said, and registering that wiped the smile from his face. “I think my arm is broken.”

Sansa looked relieved. “As long as you’ll recover, then think nothing of it,” she said, a little breathless. “I hold your promise fulfilled so long as I don’t stand a chance of losing you.”

Jaime’s lips quirked up. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured.

He stared up at her until the stretcher bearers arrived, feeling no pain at all.

 

Sansa was glad when the tournament and festivities ended and life returned to normal--well, somewhat. Robb couldn’t accompany her into the city for six weeks, as the maester had decreed that he wasn’t to leave his bed or exert himself for at least two weeks, and after that he was to rest and stay near his rooms for the remaining four. Their mother was keeping a close eye on him, making certain that he obeyed.

There was also Jaime’s broken arm. She had considered forbidding him to accompany her until he was healed, but he had assured her that he was in very little pain as long as he kept the arm in its sling, and he was otherwise perfectly fit.

“I’m right-handed anyway,” he said with a feral sort of grin. “I can still protect you quite easily.”

She capitulated, as she didn’t really want to go without him. She did make sure to check with him often to see if he needed to rest or stop for the day. He seemed gently amused and pleased each time, and assured her that the slow pace suited him quite well.

The only annoyance was Arya, who found court boring after the festivities had died down. She tagged along once a week, whining and complaining the whole time.

“I want to go hunting,” she moaned, dragging her feet after them down the next alley.

“You need to put in a request with Father,” Sansa said flatly. She’d lost count of how many times they had had this conversation. “We only have seven Kingsguard, we can’t spare them every time you want to hunt.”

Arya shot a mulish glare at Ser Arys, who didn’t seem particularly pleased with his charge, either.

“If you wouldn’t have to go out feeding orphans nearly every day, then the Kingslayer would be free to go along,” she said sullenly.

Sansa stopped walking and whirled around so fast that Arya nearly collided with her.

“What?” she squawked, flustered.

Sansa set her jaw. “Apologise to Ser Jaime.”

Arya looked between them, confused and angry. “For what?”

“For insulting him,” she said coldly. “For talking about him as though he isn’t here, and finally, for treating him like a horse that you can saddle up to take you hunting without so much as a by your leave.”

Jaime kept quiet, but she could see him gnawing his lower lip to keep from smiling. He smiled a lot these days--but they were much different than his old smiles.

Arya drew herself up, huffing. “I will not! Everybody calls him the Kingslayer--”

“Not to his face, and not in front of me,” Sansa snapped, her nostrils flaring. “I can’t stop our parents or Robb from referring to him as such, but you will show him the respect he is due.”

Ser Arys looked like he wished he was anywhere else, but he remained silent as well, shifting uncomfortably.

“I’m the princess, I can call him whatever I like!”

Arya was all shrill defiance, her chin raised, but her eyes were uncertain.

Sansa rolled her eyes, giving a very unladylike snort. “And now you sound like Robb,” she said, and turned to keep walking.

Arya scampered after her indignantly, as Sansa had known she would. The two Kingsguard followed more sedately.

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t!”

“You do, and I’m telling Jon what you said!”

Arya stopped walking, her jaw dropping. Sansa turned to face her expectantly. Jon was Arya’s hero and mentor--a large part of her problems with adjusting to life in the capital was due to suddenly having to share Jon with everyone, not just occasionally Bran and Rickon. Even now, he was sitting with Robb, catching up and helping keep him in bed while their mother rested.

“You wouldn’t,” Arya said uncertainly, her demeanour turned fearful and hurt.

Jon didn’t tolerate Robb’s arrogance in their younger siblings. He was likely to avoid Arya for several days if he found out.

Sansa raised her brows. “I would. If you keep acting like a spoiled brat, I will.”

She turned to Jaime with an air of desperation. “I’m sorry!”

She turned back to Sansa, biting her lip anxiously.

Sansa shook her head. “I’m sorry….”

She left a lilt at the end, making it clear there was a blank to be filled in.

Arya huffed in defeat, her shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry, _Ser Jaime_.”

Jaime’s mouth twitched at the corners, but he valiantly kept from laughing. “Apology accepted, Princess Arya.”

Sansa could see his eyes dancing with amusement and struggled to hide her responding smile. “Very good. I won’t tell Jon-- _this_ time. Now, I suggest you and Ser Arys go and find something else to do while Ser Jaime and I finish up the last two houses. I hear Ser Barristan was training today--perhaps you can still catch the end.”

Arya lit up at the prospect--and the reassurance that Sansa wouldn’t tell on her to Jon--and dashed back in the direction of the Red Keep, forcing Ser Arys to run to keep up with her.

Sansa exchanged a look with Jaime and they both broke into chuckles, carrying on with their work with smiles.

If, perhaps, they walked a little too close to one another, their shoulders or hands brushing as they walked, there was no one around who dared to comment.

It still hurt that they couldn’t be together, but life was as close to perfect as it could be. At least, it was until several months after Sansa’s sixteenth nameday.

The Tyrells had been more and more frequent guests at their table since the tournament. Sansa had made conversation with Margaery, delighted to have a female companion who didn’t simper and blush in her presence. She had equally devoted herself to ignoring the hints and nudges from her parents and Lady Olenna.

One evening, Lady Olenna stepped past subtlety, and Sansa could no longer avoid an encounter with Ser Loras without being unbearably rude.

“It is such a fine night,” Lady Olenna said, firm and loud, near the end of the meal. “Loras, be a gentleman and take Princess Sansa out to enjoy the air. It may be the last such warm night we have for quite some time. It would be a shame for either of you to miss it.”

It was an order, not a request. Sansa saw the dismay on Ser Loras’s face and hoped she’d done a better job of hiding her own shock and anger.

Jaime’s face was blank when she reluctantly stood and glanced his way, but she heard leather squeaking as his grip on his sword tightened. His eyes were hot on Ser Loras as he rounded the table to offer Sansa his arm. She tried to catch Jaime’s eye, but his gaze remained fastened to Ser Loras. His jaw twitched when Ser Loras cleared his throat, and she turned to the younger knight, forcing a smile.

“Apologies, ser,” she said politely, but it rang false to her own ears. “My mind was elsewhere.”

Ser Loras offered her a wan smile. “No matter. Shall we?”

They walked out to the gardens, looking anywhere but at each other. The silence between them was stifling. She took comfort from hearing Jaime’s boots on the path behind them, guarding her as faithfully as ever.

“Shall we sit?” Ser Loras suggested after they had made the circuit of the lighted path twice.

He waved rather helplessly at a bench beside a raised pool. She inclined her head and settled on the bench. She watched Jaime take up a position within earshot while Ser Loras sat beside her.

The night bugs started to sing. Jaime looked particularly handsome, she thought, with the torchlight on one side playing in his golden hair and golden armour, and the moonlight on the other side making his white cloak and pale face almost seem to glow.

“Princess Sansa,” Ser Loras said suddenly, turning toward her.

She jumped, startled from her contemplation, and her response was rather colder than she meant it to be as a result.

“Yes, Ser Loras?”

He hesitated, taken aback, then forged ahead. “I’m not very good at this, my Princess,” he admitted. “I confess I spend more time training than wooing.”

Sansa raised a brow, but her voice was considerably gentler when she spoke again. “And how does Lord Renly fare?”

He gaped at her, just for a second, and relaxed at her knowing expression. “He is well, thank you. I am…lucky to call him a…friend.”

She nodded and looked at her fingers. “We should all have such friends.”

He hesitated again. “I sincerely apologise for breaking _your_ friend’s arm,” he said lowly. “Injuries happen in tournaments, but I know it grieved you.”

She glanced at Jaime, who gave no sign that he could hear them, and she turned to Ser Loras with determination.

“Can we be honest for a moment?”

Ser Loras blinked. “Of course.”

“I don’t want to marry you,” she said frankly, smiling a bit guiltily. “I will never want to marry you. I’m sorry.”

He grinned, chuckling a little. “I don’t want to marry you, either. I mean, you’re beautiful and very kind, but….”

“I’m not your type,” she said, slipping a sly glance in Jaime’s direction.

He was the one who had filled her in on Ser Loras and Lord Renly’s relationship. It had seemed obvious in hindsight, and after accepting Jaime’s former relationship with Cersei, it was very easy for Sansa to accept them, too. At least _they_ weren’t related.

“Exactly,” Ser Loras said, and then he heaved a sigh. “If only there was some way to dissuade my grandmother. She’s determined that I should marry you, as insurance in case Margaery fails to secure your brother.”

Sansa raised her chin. “My flat refusal to accept the betrothal should do the trick. It worked with Joffrey Baratheon.”

Ser Loras grinned. “So that’s why the little weasel is moping around and drooling down the whores’ bosoms.”

He froze as the last word left his lips, perhaps belatedly realising that perhaps he shouldn’t use such language around her.

She feigned offence. “That’s just insulting to weasels.”

She thought she heard Jaime stifle a laugh.

“So our plan is blithe indifference and a refusal to accept our betrothal, should the subject be raised?” Ser Loras asked brightly.

“Precisely,” she said, and schooled her face into a mask of polite indifference. “Now quit smiling, you look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

He walked her back to her chambers, struggling to smother a smile the whole way.

 

Jaime wasn’t as confident as Sansa in her plan to thwart Lady Olenna. The Tyrell matriarch was a tough old bird who could outwait even Jaime’s own father, when it suited her needs. He took comfort in the fact that she and Loras had made it plain that they didn’t wish to marry, but he fully expected them to fail.

He was surprised, then, when Lady Olenna stopped pushing and abruptly refocused her efforts on pushing Prince Robb and her daughter together. Loras gratefully returned to spending his spare time with Renly, and Sansa rather smugly returned to her charity work unhindered.

“I told my parents that I couldn’t bear to marry someone of Ser Loras’s reputation,” she confided several weeks later when they felt safe enough to speak of it. “I let them make of that what they would. Whatever they thought, they spoke to Lady Olenna and whatever arrangement they had was called off.”

Jaime smiled. He couldn’t help it around her. It was like she infected him with happiness every time he even thought about her.

“Very clever,” he said, and didn’t follow it with the darker thought that the next suitor may not be so easily disposed of.

Tyrion thought such things often enough for both of them. Now that Cersei had apparently made it her life’s ambition to sleep with every man she could find who wasn’t one of her brothers and to drink her way through the entirety of the cellars of the Red Keep, he and Tyrion had more time to spend together. Jaime had been pleased by that until Tyrion sobered up enough to start speaking sense.

“As glad as I am that you’re no longer fucking our sister, I fail to see how this is any better for you. I don’t know why you continue to torture yourself this way,” he often said when Jaime came back from another day of heartache at having to watch Sansa from afar. “You can never have her. You swore vows and everything. You should ask to be assigned to her brat of a sister or her brother--even Ned himself. Anything to get yourself out of her immediate vicinity.”

Jaime looked at him miserably then. “I don’t wish to be parted from her.”

Tyrion would heave a sigh then and call him a romantic fool, and then they would talk of other things. It was never far from his reasons to berate Jaime, though, and he could dive into a full list of the many ways he thought it foolish at any given moment.

It was still better than shaming Sansa’s faith in him by sleeping with Cersei again, but there were days when Jaime wondered why both of his siblings felt the need to tell him how stupid he was every time he saw them. It was disheartening at best. Sometimes his only consolation was that his father was still stubbornly remaining at Casterly Rock, so he wasn’t there to join the chorus of calling him an idiot.

Little did they know that it only made him love Sansa more. She had never called him stupid, even when he thought he probably deserved it.

The peace couldn’t last forever, of course--barely two months had passed when Samwell Tarly arrived in the Red Keep. He was a fat, soft, bumbling, nervous young fool. Jaime might have discounted him immediately if it hadn’t been abundantly clear that Sansa pitied him. Her gentle, friendly reception made him irrationally angry with him.

Sam, as big a fool as he was, clearly noticed Jaime’s belligerence and became even more nervous and bumbling.

Unfortunately, Sansa noticed, too.

“Be _nice_ ,” she scolded him three days after Sam’s arrival. “It isn’t his fault.”

“Your parents are just trying to secure the Reach--first through the Tyrells, and now through _him_ ,” Jaime snarled, shooting Sam another glare.

“I know that, and so does he, but you can’t blame him for that!” she said, swatting him to redirect his attention back to her.

“Watch me,” he said in a low growl, stiffening.

Sansa sighed, her anger dissipating. “Jaime.”

His hackles lowered immediately, his eyes relaxing from the narrow glare he’d adopted, and he finally looked at her.

“This is his last chance,” she said quietly, her expression so earnest that his anger cooled even further. “If he fails to win me, his father--he already told Sam that his choices are securing a betrothal to me, taking the black, or--or his father will arrange a ‘hunting accident’ for him so his younger brother can inherit.”

That took the wind out of Jaime’s sails. It was too close to how his own father treated Tyrion for him to feel comfortable with it. He shot a guilty glance at the gormless suitor, who appeared just as frightened by that as by any glare.

“I’m trying to let him down gently,” Sansa went on sadly. “He’s very kind and good, but he’s a coward by his own admission. He’ll take the black if he has to, but it’s easy to see that the idea terrifies him only slightly less than being murdered by his father. It makes it…difficult for me to be frank with him.”

Jaime tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in his chest. He wasn’t so selfish as to ask her if she was certain she was going to deny him. He had no right to ask that--she wasn’t his.

But Sansa seemed to read his thoughts, a smile tugging at her mouth despite her sorrow.

“I won’t marry him. I don’t love _him_ ,” she said quietly.

A lump formed in his throat and he nodded tightly, blinking and looking away.

Sansa returned to Sam’s side. Jaime followed after taking a moment to collect himself.

He made a sincere effort to be kinder to Sam thereafter, the jealousy that boiled in his chest combated by the sure knowledge that even if he could never have the rest of her, Sansa’s heart was his, just as his heart was hers.

 

Sansa arranged to speak alone with Sam a few weeks after he arrived, but she didn’t get a chance to open her mouth.

“I know, you don’t want to marry me,” he said with a sort of resigned cheer that made her feel even worse. “I’ve been expecting you to say so for a while now.”

She offered him a guilty look. “I’m sorry, Sam. You’re very kind, but….”

“But I’m not _him_ ,” he said, with a glance toward the closed door off the balcony. “I know. I knew before I ever got here. It’s all right. I’ve been speaking to your half-brother, Jon, and he’s going to the Wall in another month or so, when your uncle comes for a visit, and he says he doesn’t mind if I travel with him. My father has already agreed that I can wait to go with Jon and Benjen Stark. I’m all taken care of.”

Sansa smiled sadly and kissed his cheek. “If only your father was patient. You would have made someone a very good husband someday.”

He reddened. “You’re very kind, too. I hope you can be happy with someone, someday.”

“I don’t think that’s likely, but…thank you.”

They parted ways in friendship. Her parents were visibly frustrated, but it wasn’t long before they turned up another suitor. Sam and Jon were not yet out of the capital when Trystane Martell arrived, escorted by his uncle Oberyn.

Sansa exchanged a worried glance with Jaime as soon as he arrived with full fanfare. Her worries only increased as Trystane tried his best to win her over, the young prince wooing her with Dornish foods and clothes and finery.

She was deliberately as cold as she could manage from the beginning, but it only seemed to encourage him. The worst of it was that she knew her parents had manoeuvred her into a very delicate political match. Angering Dorne was dangerous, and the fact that her parents had knowingly pushed him at her, assuming that she would bend to her sense of duty, only served to anger _her_.

Four long months passed, with Prince Trystane constantly at her heels, not giving her a moment’s peace. Jaime looked more resigned every day as she knew she was visibly losing the rein on her frustration. A part of her knew that Jaime and her parents were right--she _should_ capitulate, accepting Trystane’s suit for the good of the realm.

But her heart cried out at the thought. She couldn’t bear it. She didn’t want to spend her life in a palace built on sand, surrounded by strange customs and strange people, and heat that would feel unbearable compared to her childhood in the North. She couldn’t set foot in a land that had never seen a summer snow, had never heard a wolf howl on a moonlit night.

Her dreams were not full of sand and snakes and spears--her dreams showed her a white castle above a sea turned gold and red by the setting sun, and rooms filled with red brocade and golden lions, and green rolling hills as far as the eye could see.

Her mother came to her in her chambers one evening, dismissing her handmaids. Sansa couldn’t relax as she usually did when her mother found the time to brush her hair. She knew there was a purpose to this visit.

They were both silent for a long time.

“You can’t reject every suitor who comes along,” her mother said quietly.

Sansa stared at the fire in the hearth. “I know.”

“Your father wants to strengthen our ties with Dorne. This match is very important to him.”

Sansa said nothing.

Her mother sighed and set the brush aside, laying her hands on her shoulders. “I know what you want, Sansa.”

“Do you,” she murmured.

She sighed again and sat beside her, taking her hand. “I know that your father and I are busy, but do you think that makes us blind? I saw you at the tournament--I have watched you with Ser Jaime since then. I know that you care for him, but it can never be--you do know that, don’t you? Ser Jaime is sworn to the Kingsguard, sworn never to take a wife--”

“I _know_ ,” Sansa said, turning back to the fire, her eyes burning.

Her mother touched her cheek, her tone softening. “I just don’t want to see you unhappy for the rest of your life, and I’m afraid that’s what will happen if you stay here, saving yourself for a man who can never have you, no matter how much he and you might wish otherwise. I want to see you married to a good man who can give you a comfortable life and a family.”

Sansa raised her eyes with difficulty, hating herself for the tears she felt tracking down her cheeks. “If you don’t wish to see me unhappy for the rest of my life, then don’t force me to marry someone I don’t love.”

“I didn’t love your father when I first married him,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “That came later, with time and--”

“How many people does that happen for, Mother?” she asked, having heard that story many times before. “Realistically, how many of us are forced into arranged marriages, sold off by our fathers to secure this or that? And of all of those marriages, how many of them are genuinely happy, loving marriages in the end? How many people does it actually work out for? Did it work out for your sister, going slowly mad while she nurses her sickly boy at her teat and her husband ignores her? Did it work out for Cersei Lannister, sold off to Robert Baratheon, who would rather drink and whore his way through King’s Landing than even look at his own wife? How many of his bastards is Father providing for these days? Did it work out for _them_ , Mother?”

Catelyn pursed her lips. “Sansa, those are exceptions just as much as my marriage to your father. _Realistically_ , most marriages are neutral. Trystane is yet young, but he is a good young man, and--”

“So you can see into the future, then,” Sansa said, desperate and stubborn. “You can tell me for certain that he won’t become another Robert Baratheon or Jon Arryn or Stannis as he ages? Don’t you see, Mother? You think you’re buying my happiness, but you’re only choosing the kind of misery I shall have to endure! I tell you if I cannot marry for love, then I would rather be alone forever.”

Her mother dropped her hands, slowly standing. “Your father could command it.”

“And then you will have a daughter to mourn,” she shot back bitterly, staring at the flames once more.

Catelyn gave up, letting herself out without another word.

Sansa wept most of the night, despair at her situation overcoming her. She couldn’t see a way out of the betrothal with Trystane, and even if she did get out of it, she didn’t see how she could ensure that she and Jaime would be left in peace, to carry on as they always had.

Morning came too soon, and Sansa got ready to face the day more slowly than usual. She was just leaving to see about breakfast when the sound of running feet made her turn.

Arya bolted down the staircase, nearly colliding with a passing servant in her haste, and came sliding to Sansa’s side. Her face was red and sweaty, and she was grinning from ear to ear, panting like a dog at the end of a hunt.

“Sansa! I’m so glad I caught you first. Father has called for an audience in the throne room--you and the Martells are to attend--I think he’s--”

“Going to decree that we’re betrothed,” Sansa said dully.

That explained Jaime’s absence, as well as Ser Arys’s--all of the Kingsguard had probably been ordered to appear in the throne room, to sweep the attendees for any hidden threats.

Arya nodded rapidly. “Yes--but you can stop him! Look!”

She shoved a rather crinkled, damp scroll into Sansa’s hands. She wrinkled her nose as she opened it, but any such concerns were immediately dashed as she began to read.

_“Princess Sansa--_

_Princess Arya and Jon have told me about your continuing trouble with arranged marriages. I have some information that may help--a maester should be able to confirm this._

_There is no precedent for a princess remaining unmarried when she had other options, but there_ is ___precedent for a princess to refuse a betrothal and demand a tournament instead. Princess Vaenys was a fourth daughter, unremarkable other than that she was in love with one of her brothers, and her father the King wanted to marry her off to a Dornish prince. He announced the betrothal, and she refused it, stating that she would only marry the man who won her hand in a tournament, competing in swords, archery, and jousting. There was no melee, according to the records. By the princess’s decree, backed by the king because he saw an opportunity to make her renege on the whole thing if a peasant won, any man could compete, regardless of station or prior vows._

_This included Kingsguard and men of the Night’s Watch, and in fact, the tournament was won by a man of the Night’s Watch--Brandon Karstark. He was, in accordance with the rules of the tournament, released from his vows to the Night’s Watch and given the princess’s hand in marriage. The princess refused to renege on her word, so the king gave them a dowry and a small castle. They were, by all accounts, quite happy, although she apparently never got over her brother and named her first son after him._

_Anyway, I don’t know if this will work for you, but I hope so. I wish you every happiness._

_Respectfully,_  
_Your friend,_  
_Samwell Tarly”_

Sansa felt a grin slowly spreading over her face. “Arya, I take back every unkind thing I ever said or thought about you. Come on, we have to hurry!”

She picked up her skirts and ran, Arya following, giggling. They stormed into the throne room right in the middle of something--the Martells were standing at the foot of the throne while Catelyn whispered furiously in Ned’s ear. They all stopped whatever they were doing, the entire court turning to stare.

Sansa didn’t stop walking until she stood at the foot of the throne. She held her head high, trying to contain the wild grin that wanted to escape at this mad chance. Her eyes nearly glowed.

Her father looked at her grimly. “It’s done, Sansa. You’re betrothed to Prince Trystane.”

“I refuse,” she called out, high and clear so that it carried throughout the room. “I demand the right to a tournament.”

A murmur ran around the room. Sansa maintained eye contact with her father.

He opened and closed his mouth twice before finding his voice. “What is this?”

She raised her chin, feeling the wolf’s blood pounding in her veins. “I refer to the precedent set by Princess Vaenys Targaryen--ask Grand Maester Pycelle if you wish to confirm what I say--but I demand, as she did, that a tournament of swords, archery, and joust be held, and that my hand will belong only to the man who wins it, be he peasant or nobleman. Any unmarried man may compete, and if he should be restrained by vows, then he shall be released from those vows upon winning the tournament, even if that man is sworn to the Kingsguard or the Night’s Watch!”

She had to raise her voice at the end, as the court had begun to murmur and argue amongst themselves, protesting her words. Ned held his hand up after he had recovered from the shock, and the room slowly, discontentedly fell silent.

“It’s not possible,” he said roughly.

“I’m afraid Princess Sansa is within her rights,” Lord Varys spoke up, surprising her. “And it is precisely as she said. If memory serves, Princess Vaenys was wed to the man who won her tournament--a Karstark who was sworn to the Night’s Watch. He was second in the swords and first in archery, and no one else did as well as he did overall, so he was declared the winner. He was released from his vows and given a small castle near King’s Landing.”

Pycelle cleared his throat. “It is true, Your Grace. Even Kingsguard…even lowborn, if they could afford the armour and weaponry. She has a right to hold a tournament and wed the champion of that tournament.”

The court lapsed into murmurs again--this time less disgruntled and more eager as the nobles began to realise the potential of the situation. Sansa glanced to the side, and her gaze inadvertently caught Cersei’s. Her lips were pinched, her eyes flashing fire. Sansa just smiled at her and turned away--to Jaime.

He looked like he’d been hit with a plank, dazed and unable to believe his good fortune. He came to life when their eyes met, animated despite standing still, his eyes bright and his face full of joyful determination. She saw a flash of teeth before her father stood, calling the court’s attention back to himself.

His face was grim with resignation. “So be it. Send out ravens to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms--in three months’ time, there will be a tournament here in King’s Landing. It shall be open to all men who are unmarried and can acquire a horse and the equipment needed to compete. The competitions shall be swords, archery, and jousting. The prize shall be Princess Sansa’s hand in marriage, a new suit of armour, two fine horses, and the sum of three thousand gold dragons. If a man of no lands should win, a place shall be found for the princess and her new husband.”

The court erupted in cheering and excited chatter. Sansa had eyes only for Jaime--until her mother came and took her arm. She obediently followed her parents back to the small council room.

Her father scrubbed a hand over his face before he spoke. “You know that Ser Jaime might not win?”

Sansa sobered, inclining her head. “I do know. But at least this way, there’s a chance--a chance we never would have had otherwise.”

“And there’s an equal chance you may end up married to a monster,” Catelyn said, her voice harsh but her eyes full of sorrow.

“I’m willing to take that chance,” she said stubbornly. “This is _my_ choice, and not something I’ve been forced into. I will live with the consequences knowing that at least it was _my_ decision. But I don’t think I will have any cause for regret. I believe in Ser Jaime.”

“Men will fight in this tournament who never had reason to join before,” her father warned. “The Kingslayer will be facing men he’s never fought before. He has a reputation won on the tournament fields, but he may meet his match in an unknown.”

Sansa softened but did not waver. “I believe in Jaime.”

Her parents exchanged a glance and nodded, resigned.

She met Jaime in the gardens later. He clasped her hands in his and stared at her with glowing eyes. His whole body seemed aquiver with eagerness and hope and excitement.

“I will win,” he vowed, before she could even open her mouth to speak. “I’ll win this tournament. I’ll win your hand, and I’ll marry you and take you home to Casterly Rock, and you’ll want for nothing for the rest of our lives.”

Sansa smiled up at him, warm and content. “All I want is you.”

He lit from within, it seemed to her, and she was powerless to resist when he lowered his head to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is, obviously, from "The Rains of Castamere," which is not mine, but GRRM's.
> 
> (2) These lines are from "Let No Man Steal Your Thyme," also known as "The Sprig of Thyme," "The Seeds of Love," "Maiden's Lament," "Garner's Gay," or "Rue," which is a folk ballad from our world. I chose it because it's one of my favourite songs and I have no gift for songwriting, and as it's traditional, rather than modern, I thought it fit in with the world well enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The major character death tag comes into play here. There is a bit of gruesome imagery, but nothing worse than you'd see on the show, so it should be fine.
> 
> This is very, very long. Apologies if it inconveniences you, but I honestly couldn't find a place to divide it that felt right to me.

Jaime trained in every spare moment after that. His future depended on winning this tournament, and he was determined to win or die trying.

Tyrion gave up trying to dissuade him from hoping after he found Jaime in the training yard in the middle of the night, attempting to better his middling skill with a bow.

“You do realise it’s too dark to see the target,” he said dryly, peering out past the torchlight.

Jaime nocked his next arrow. “Which is why, after I’ve run out of arrows, Podrick and I will be going for a walk to retrieve them and see how I fared. It will work well enough until daylight.”

He pretended not to notice the look Tyrion and Podrick exchanged behind his back. The arrow flew and he heard the satisfying thunk as it hit cloth-covered wood.

“So you’re going to keep your poor squire out all night just so you can get a few more hours of practice? You do know that you have three months to prepare?”

“So does everyone else,” he said curtly, and grabbed another arrow.

Podrick stirred. “Actually, my lord…begging your pardon, but Ser Jaime did tell me I could retire as soon as it started getting dark, only I….”

Tyrion paused, and his smile was clear in his voice. “I see why Jaime took to you so quickly.”

Podrick shifted, his abashed pleasure nearly audible.

Another thunk as the next arrow hit home.

“Jaime, just so we’re clear, you know that I think you’re insane, right?”

“Your opinion has been noted.”

“Good. Now what can I do to help?”

That startled Jaime into laughing, and the tension between them evaporated.

After that, Tyrion refrained from comment and was more or less supportive when Jaime was training. He even found a few sellswords willing to spar with him so he could try his hand against new opponents.

Meanwhile, the city began to fill up, slow at first and gradually faster as the time of the tournament drew near. They came from all over the Seven Kingdoms, ranging from common hedge knights and sellswords to the sons of the great houses, all of them with their eyes on the princess-- _his_ princess. He didn’t care if they were rich or poor, named or unnamed, bastards or trueborn, free men or sworn to one of the brotherhoods--to Jaime, they were equal. They were his enemies all alike, every single one who declared himself for the tournament.

There were some houses that showed up to watch but none of them declared an intention to compete, and gradually, Jaime realised that all of the houses of the Westerlands fell into this category. They all came to partake in the celebrations and watch the tournament preparations--Crakehall, Marbrand, Clegane, Stokeworth, Westerling--but not a single one put forth an entry.

Jaime turned to Tyrion, who always seemed to know everything, for an explanation.

“As soon as he found out you had declared yourself for the tournament, Father let it be known that any of our vassals who compromise your chances of winning will suffer the same fate as House Reyne,” Tyrion said lowly. “He wouldn’t allow the risk that one of his bannermen might marry better than his own son.”

Neither of them mentioned the fact that if Jaime did win and he was released from the Kingsguard, he would become Tywin’s heir once again, but it lay unspoken between them.

They would figure that out later, Jaime assured himself. First, he had to win.

He would have liked to say that he had his family’s full support, but despite his brother and his father giving their approval and helping in their own ways, he received no blessing from Cersei, not even tacitly. He hadn’t expected her to be happy, but it stung more than he thought it would when she went out of her way to tell him what she really thought.

“You’re a fool,” she said, almost conversationally, as she sat on the wall with her wine and watched Jaime string his bow. “You’re turning our family into a laughingstock, chasing after that empty-headed girl doll. I’ve seen dogs slavering over a ham bone with more dignity than you.”

Jaime didn’t pause in his preparations. He had a limited time to practice between his duties every day, and every minute was precious. He thought she must not be aware of their father’s apparent approval of his participation, but then, his approval or disapproval had never really seemed to matter all that much to her. He answered while selecting his first arrow.

“Sansa is not empty-headed,” he said. He pulled back the string. “Nor is she a girl.” He took aim. “Nor is she a doll.”

The arrow flew straight and true, striking solidly in the centre of the target. Jaime raised his brows and turned to select the next. He needed to be faster on the draw, but his aim was improving.

“She’s a very intelligent young woman, and you might want to refer to the princess with more respect.”

The second arrow went off faster, but it hit one of the outer rings instead of the middle. Jaime’s nostrils flared and he wished his sister would leave so he could concentrate.

Cersei snorted. “She’s a vapid child playing dress-up. Even this tournament _for_ _her hand_ is silly and childish. All because she’s a spoiled brat who doesn’t want to marry the man her father chose for her.”

Jaime sighed. “First of all, she’ll be seventeen in a month, two weeks before the tournament, so you could stop referring to her as a child at any point in between. It makes me feel like Walder bloody Frey when you call her a child. Secondly, if you don’t have anything else to discuss with me, you could do me the kindness of leaving me in peace. I’m trying to concentrate.”

“I could. But irritating you is much more fun than watching Robert and Joffrey and their drinking competition,” she said bitterly. “And you are like Walder Frey--nearly forty, chasing after a seventeen-year-old girl?”

He snatched another arrow. “Walder Frey is much older than forty, and the girls he marries are _actual girls_ , still clinging to their mother’s apron strings.”

Cersei chuckled. “You’re too easy to rile. You should be able to see why I get such enjoyment out of it.”

“Until you get bored,” he said, and winced a little at the bitterness and hurt in his voice.

Her brow wrinkled. “I never got bored of you, Jaime.”

He turned to her, thumping the arrow against his calf. “You _always_ got bored of me. I was never enough for you. You sit around playing the jealous castoff now, but how many times did I ask you to run away with me? Countless times, since we were teenagers, I begged you to flee to Pentos with me, to start a life together where we could love each other openly. After Joffrey was born, I kept asking--I kept asking and saving money to leave, because you said you didn’t want to run away only to live on the streets, and I stopped after Myrcella was born, but only because you commanded me to stop asking. Do you remember what you said?”

Her face flickered, her lips pinched. “That there was no point in you asking because I would never run away from Westeros. Because….”

“Because you are so close to the power here, with Robert in the king’s back pocket,” he finished for her, unable to keep from sneering slightly. “Because you couldn’t bear to give it up to become a nobody in another country. Because you couldn’t leave the land where we grew up, our friends, our family. Because I could never give my children what Robert could give them as their father. But what it really boiled down to was that I wasn’t enough for you.”

“And what _we_ had obviously wasn’t enough for _you_ , so you replaced me with a naive little songbird you could mould to your desires,” she said with a sharp smile.

Jaime took a deep breath and let it out slowly, releasing the tight, hot feeling with it. He really didn’t want to end this conversation with throttling her. Despite everything, she was his sister and he loved her, he reminded himself for the millionth time.

“I didn’t replace you with anyone. I fell in love with someone else, that’s all. And I certainly didn’t _mould_ Sansa into anything. Despite your opinion of her, she is strong, and she would never pretend to feel something she didn’t or allow herself to be persuaded to think herself in love. If she was so weak-minded as you seem to think, then Trystane would have won her over with his months of gifts and flattery,” he said, careful to keep his tone measured.

Cersei’s brows rose and her smile grew even more unpleasant. “Ah. So she _really loves_ you, then. You’re certain that if you should happen to lose this tournament and you asked her to run off to Pentos with you, she would just drop everything, abandon her family and her position and her entire life, to go with you?”

Jaime frowned a little at the thought of losing, but--if it should happen, yes, he could see himself standing before her, begging her to run away with him before her wedding to the champion of the tournament. He would be leaving everything he loved, too, but if he asked her to break her word, to leave her betrothed, her family, her charity work, her home….

He could still see her looking up at him in the gardens, her blue eyes almost luminous, lighting him through to his very soul until he thought he might leave his body, unable to physically contain so much happiness.

_“All I want is you.”_

Jaime smiled. “Yes…. Yes, I am.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes, standing from the wall. “You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought. No woman would leave the sure knowledge of comfort and her accustomed lifestyle for the love and flimsy promises of a man, not even an idiot princess.”

He sobered, returning his attention to his bow. “Which is why I’m practicing--if I win, she won’t have to choose between anything, she can have it all. Comfort, her accustomed lifestyle-- _and_ my love and ‘flimsy’ promises.”

Cersei snorted again and turned to leave, saluting him with her empty cup. “Good luck, brother.”

He shook his head and loosed his next arrow.

 

Sansa was usually denied the pleasure of watching Jaime train, as her mother was constantly calling on her for one thing or another ever since the day she demanded her tournament. They never spoke of it openly. Her mother seemed to feel that it was set in motion now, so there was nothing to be done but wait, and spend as much time with Sansa as possible in the meantime. Sansa couldn’t begrudge her that, as whatever happened, she would be marrying someone not long after the tournament and leaving King’s Landing to reside with her new husband, and visits would be rare thereafter.

Today, though, Catelyn was sitting with Ned in a closed meeting with Lord Baelish, Lord Arryn, and Lord Varys, so Sansa was able to slip down to the training grounds with Adylla, watching from the wall above. Arya had been sulking since Jon left for the Wall, outside of her excitement over Sam’s letter about the tournament loophole, but she was down on the field now, taking instruction from a swordmaster Sansa didn’t recognise. At least she wasn’t causing mischief.

Jaime was training against Ser Barristan, who had already stated that he had no intention of taking part in the tournament. Both Kingsguard raised their swords in greeting when they spotted Sansa, and she smiled and held up a hand in return. They spoke briefly to one another before going back to it, their swords flashing and clanging, their movements stirring up dust.

“He is quite handsome, milady,” Adylla ventured.

Sansa bit her lip, her face heating, but another voice broke in before she could respond.

“Indeed, he is--the Young Lion.” Robb paused, stepping up to join them at the wall. “Though not _so_ young, anymore.”

Adylla bowed and stepped back a respectful distance, leaving the two siblings relatively alone. Sansa stiffened despite herself, straightening and trying not to wring her fingers. Robb watched Jaime and Ser Barristan in silence for a while, leaning forward on his knuckles.

“He’s good,” he said lightly. “Very good. With Selmy out, he should have no problem sweeping the swords.”

Sansa said nothing. She wasn’t sure of her brother’s intention, and she didn’t want to walk into whatever verbal snare he might be laying.

“Of course, he’ll have to score very highly in at least one other category to win the whole tournament.”

Sansa’s fingers tightened around each other. “Yes.”

“His archery skill is weak, and it hasn’t improved much despite how much he’s been drilling--not enough to win.”

“He’s a great jouster,” Sansa said icily, raising her chin. “He could win the joust.”

Robb sighed. “He might score highly enough to win the tournament, but now that Loras Tyrell has entered, his odds have--”

She paled. “What? Why? I don’t want to marry him-- _he_ doesn’t want to marry _me_!”

“Perhaps not, but Lady Olenna saw another opportunity to get you,” he said, his regret plain. “I don’t think Ser Loras had a choice.”

“I thought she was happy with you, since it seems likely that you and Margaery….”

Robb shrugged. “We’re announcing our betrothal after your tournament. Margaery wanted to do it before, but I reminded her about your nameday coming up and she said she didn’t want to steal the attention from her new sister. But I think with Lady Olenna, enough is never enough. Particularly since we have so many siblings that other families could marry--she wants us secured before our parents start looking for a husband for Arya.”

Sansa grimaced. “Good luck to them. They think _I_ was difficult to marry off? They let Arya be one of the boys for so long, I think they’ll find that she won’t consent to play the sweet little princess wife simply because they are in need of alliances. She won’t even wear dresses!”

He laughed despite himself and they both looked down to see Arya knocking Ser Arys into the dirt while her swordmaster nodded and shouted corrections. Ser Arys picked himself up, shaking his head, and Sansa felt a twinge of pity for the poor knight. He was a member of the Kingsguard, sworn to protect their family--getting abused by Arya wasn’t technically part of his duties, but it seemed to be his lot in life. She wondered what he had done to offend Ser Barristan so that he always scheduled him with her.

Robb sobered. “Sansa, if you want me to, I’ll enter the tournament.”

Sansa nearly choked on her own spit and had to cough several times before she could speak. “I…. Thank you? I have no interest in carrying on the Targaryen tradition.”

He flushed such a deep red his face was nearly purple, his eyes comically wide. “What? Oh! I…that! No! No, no--I didn’t mean-- _that_. I wouldn’t marry you if I won, I was offering because if I won, you wouldn’t marry at all. I just thought…I mean, if I was in it, it would come down to me, Jaime, or Ser Loras. Everyone else would let me win,” he added bitterly.

Sansa blinked at him, uncertain whether she was more surprised that he had called Jaime by name, rather than calling him “Kingslayer,” as he always did, or that he had apparently noticed that his success in Arya’s tournament had largely been unearned.

After a moment to process, she reached out and laid her hand over his, offering him a gentle smile.

“That won’t be necessary, Robb, but thank you. I wouldn’t want my sister-to-be to get the wrong idea,” she said teasingly.

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, straightening up with a smile.

She softened. “You’re a good brother, Robb.”

“Well…I don’t know about that. I’m trying to be,” he said, and he sounded more like the boy she had stolen cakes with at Winterfell.

She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

He looked a little embarrassed, but he squeezed her hand. “I do hope it works out the way you want it to, Sansa. I want you to be happy. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

She beamed. Robb excused himself shortly after, and Sansa returned to watching the sparring with her handmaid, whispering and giggling about the knights from time to time.

Jaime was defeated by Ser Barristan again, but he was grinning when he took his helmet off, so Sansa assumed that meant he was happy with his performance. Still, the news of Loras’s entrance into the tournament filled her stomach with anxious flutters, and she knew her smile was uneasy when he looked up at her and his grin faded.

 

“Care for a spar, Lannister?”

Jaime looked up in surprise. Meryn didn’t often train--one of the reasons he wasn’t fit to be a Kingsguard, in Jaime’s opinion, and also why he had no chance of winning the tournament--and when he did, he rarely ever chose Jaime or Barristan as a sparring partner. He wasn’t fond of being repeatedly knocked on his rear, apparently. Jaime had never minded because he hated Meryn and thought he belonged on a farm, shovelling pig excrement.

Still, the tournament was only two weeks away, and he wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity for an opponent he hadn’t faced so many times he knew him backward and forward. He just wished Meryn had chosen a different morning.

Yesterday was Sansa’s seventeenth nameday, and Jaime had toasted her health long into the night, first at the feast and then with Tyrion’s party of sellswords. Only Tyrion had outlasted him--he’d woken to find his brother still happily pouring wine in the morning light, drunkenly humming. Jaime had vomited twice before he managed to stand and dress, but his head was still pounding and his body was sluggish when he moved. In his current state, he wasn’t sure he could beat Meryn.

But then, this was only a practice spar, not the real tournament, so they weren’t out to kill one another yet. Losing to Meryn now might give him a false sense of confidence and make him easier to destroy in the tournament.

“Why not?” he said flippantly, and put aside his bow and quiver.

Meryn waited with unusual patience while Jaime called Podrick over and started putting on his light armour. Although, he didn’t exactly have a ready alternative, Jaime reflected. After the festivities yesterday, the training grounds were deserted this morning. The three of them were the only ones around.

“Ready?” Meryn asked politely when Jaime drew his sword.

“Ready.”

They saluted one another and began, slowly at first. That pace suited Jaime very well--as soon as they began to speed their movements, his head made it known that it was not pleased.

He stepped back for a breather, trying to blink away the throbbing behind his eyes and in his teeth.

“Can’t you fight today?” Meryn asked, and there was an edge in his tone that raised Jaime’s hackles.

He attacked again in lieu of answering, forcing Meryn back. The brief flurry of blows threw him off guard, but it also left Jaime panting in an effort to quell the nausea.

“You’re getting slow in your old age,” Meryn scoffed, moving in again with a wide swing.

Jaime parried with more effort than he wanted to admit. He very much wanted to point out that Meryn was several years older than him, but it was all he could do at the moment to keep him and the bile rising in his throat at bay. His head was starting to spin a little and he could feel the sweat beading on his neck and forehead.

“Jaime! Jaime, _look out_!”

Tyrion never sounded so sharp and urgent, and it drew his attention away from Meryn as he failed to register the words. Then there was pain, red and hot and sharp, and Jaime fumbled and dropped his sword.

“Hey!” Podrick shouted.

He was on one knee, bracing himself on one hand, with no recollection of falling. A clang made him look up--Podrick had his sword and was standing in front of Jaime, warding off Meryn.

One of the sellswords from last night--the funny one--Bronn?--appeared behind Meryn and jammed a long dagger in his eye. Maybe-Bronn stepped back and Meryn crumpled to the ground, a puppet with cut strings.

Jaime vomited bile and slumped onto his side. He felt so fuzzy and awful that it took him several minutes to realise that the pain was coming from his leg, a thumping throb in unison with his pulse, and that Tyrion was pressing on the gash with both hands and talking rapidly, with none of his usual composure.

“--it’s going to be fine, I promise. Pycelle told me everything. He’s going to help you. Bronn’s going to get a stretcher and we’ll get you inside.”

Podrick was stripping off his armour as best he could with Jaime lying on the ground. Jaime pressed his head and shoulder into the dirt in an attempt to sit up without making the world start spinning again.

Tyrion pushed him back down. “Stop that. Don’t move. You’re bleeding.”

“And hungover,” Jaime mumbled, and wondered when he had closed his eyes.

“ _Very_ hungover,” Tyrion said, worry making his tone harsh. “What possessed you to try to train today? You could barely stand when you left my rooms!”

“Thirteen days until the tournament.”

Tyrion heaved an exasperated sigh. “And now you might have to withdraw--was the extra practice worth it?”

Alarm made him rocket up where all else had failed.

“No, no, I can’t withdraw, we have to fix it,” he babbled, panicking, clutching at the gash on his thigh as though he could seal it back together with his hands. Blood slicked his fingers, soaking through his trouser leg.

“Calm down! Here’s Bronn, we’ll get you to Pycelle, all right?”

He marginally relaxed, enough for Bronn and Podrick to get him on the stretcher and carry him inside. They stuck to the back halls, with Tyrion scouting ahead for them, but they reached Pycelle’s laboratory without being seen. Bronn and Podrick slipped out again as soon as Jaime was settled on the table. Since they took the stretcher with them, he could only assume they were going back to dispose of the body, hopefully before anyone else recovered enough to go out there.

“You didn’t get to him in time, I see,” Pycelle said gravely.

“If you had told me about it when Cersei first approached you, I might have, you dried up old cunt,” Tyrion snapped.

Jaime lifted his head. “Cersei? What are you talking about?”

Tyrion drew a breath, only to release it again without speaking. He wouldn’t meet Jaime’s eyes.

Pycelle looked up from gathering his supplies. “Lady Cersei wanted you removed from the tournament. She offered Ser Meryn money and…favours in return for mildly injuring you, although it looks as though he injured you more severely than she intended.”

His hands tightened around the edges of the table. “And you? What did she approach you for?”

Tyrion spoke up reluctantly, but he still wouldn’t look at him. “She paid Pycelle to drug you, to keep you too weak to compete after the injury.”

“I will, of course, not be doing that,” Pycelle said, laying a needle and thread on the table beside his injured leg. “Your lord father has always been good to me, and he has made it very clear that he hopes for your success in this tournament. I will need to give you some milk of the poppy, of course, to--”

“No,” Jaime said tightly, blinking at the ceiling as his fingernails dug into the wood.

Pycelle sputtered for a moment. “But--Ser Jaime, I must clean and sew the wound, and it will be quite painful.”

“No milk of the poppy.”

“Give him _nothing_ ,” Tyrion said sharply, backing him up with a fierce glare. “He doesn’t want your potions, and we can’t be sure you’re not slipping him something else as well.”

Pycelle sputtered some more, clearly offended, but he began cleaning the wound anyway. Bronn returned at some point, though Jaime lost track of things for a while, lost in a haze of pain. The only advantage was that the stabbing hot pain from his wound made his headache fade until he barely even noticed it anymore. Pycelle had just finished stitching the wound closed and was preparing a bandage when Podrick returned.

“Ser Barristan and Princess Sansa saw me and asked where Ser Jaime is,” Podrick murmured to Tyrion. “I told them he was under the weather today.”

“Good,” Jaime croaked, making them start. “No one can know.”

Tyrion frowned. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to hide the limp caused by the _giant gash_ in your leg.”

“I won’t limp,” he said, more determined than confident. “No one can know. If they find out, they’ll use it against me in the tournament.”

“He’s got a point,” Bronn said, almost unbearably cheerful.

Tyrion held both hands out. “Wait--you’re not even going to _consider_ withdrawing? Jaime, you, again, have a _giant gash in your leg_ , and I can’t _believe_ that I have to keep reminding you of that fact, and who knows how much blood you lost? I don’t think it’s safe for you to compete, there’s no way you’ll be healed in two weeks.”

“Lord Tyrion is right,” Pycelle said, though he quailed a bit at Jaime’s glare. “I can’t recommend training in the next ten days, until the stitches are removed, and while I should be able to remove them a few days before the tournament, the wound will still be tender and prone to reopen under stress.”

Tyrion’s brows rose. “You see? You can’t compete, Jaime. You’ll lose, and you may end up injuring yourself even worse than you already are.”

He pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing as he slid his legs over the edge of the table. Putting a bit of weight on his leg made it throb, but it wasn’t as bad as he had feared.

“I can’t withdraw,” he ground out. “I _won’t_ withdraw.”

“Jaime….” Tyrion sighed. “Jaime, be reasonable. I know it doesn’t come naturally to you, but for _once_ in your life, listen to reason. You _can’t win_ , not now. You always seek to be honourable, don’t you? Withdrawing when you’re injured is perfectly honourable. No one will fault you for it.”

“I can’t…withdraw,” he said, gritting his teeth as he stood fully. “This is it, Tyrion. This is _the_ tournament. This is the one. If I don’t win this, then nothing I’ve ever done up to now means anything.”

He rubbed his forehead with visible frustration. “Look, Jaime, I know what this means to you, but--”

“No, you don’t.” He felt his throat clogging and swallowed hard. “This is my life. Do you understand? This is me with Sansa, fulfilling the promises I made to her. I have to try, no matter the cost. I have to do this.”

Tyrion frowned at him for a long moment. Jaime stared back steadily.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but if Ser Jaime withdraws, doesn’t that mean Lady Cersei wins?” Podrick spoke up.

Jaime made a mental note to give Podrick a very large purse of money when this was all over.

Tyrion blew out a breath and looked away. “Fine! Fine. This is madness. Pycelle, you’re treating Jaime for a stomach bug as far as everyone else is concerned. Bronn, Podrick--you’re sworn to silence. If anyone asks, Jaime became ill after overindulging at the feast. Now I’m going to finish off whatever wine is left in my rooms.”

He stumped off, muttering to himself.

“He’ll get over it,” Bronn said.

Jaime nodded once. “I know.”

He took a tentative step--pain flared like wildfire from the gash, but his leg didn’t buckle. Not limping would take concentration, but he could do it.

He was so focused that he didn’t realise Bronn and Podrick were behind him until he reached his rooms. He blinked at them eloquently, too short of breath to speak.

“Just making sure you don’t head out to the training yard again,” Bronn said with a shrug. “You seem like the stubborn, thick-skulled type who would.”

Podrick flushed--but he didn’t disagree.

Jaime scowled. “I’m going to change out of these bloody clothes and then I’m going to pretend to be in my sickbed in case Ser Barristan decides to check Podrick’s story. Tomorrow I’ll return to duty without training--but the day after that, I have to start training again. I need to be in condition for the tournament and my archery is still inconsistent at best.”

Bronn snorted and shook his head. “I was right, you’re exactly that type. We’ll be checking in now and again.”

He left with a bit more swagger than he should have had for a man who’d spent most of the night drinking. Podrick shot Jaime an alarmed, apologetic look and scampered off.

Jaime shook his head and did what he’d said. He would give his leg all the rest it wanted today, no matter how much the setback frustrated him.

It must have taken more out of him than he thought, because he fell asleep before long. He woke near dusk to find Sansa’s handmaiden laying out a steaming tray for him. She blushed and curtsied when Jaime sat up.

“My apologies, Ser Jaime. Princess Sansa asked me to deliver a light supper to you, along with this note.”

She handed it over and left with another curtsy. Jaime dragged himself out of bed and went to the table to investigate. There was a bowl of broth, a basket of warm bread and a little butter, and a mug of hot tea. Jaime smiled and reached for the mug, sipping as he unfolded the note.

_“My dear Jaime,_

_I was distressed to hear that you are feeling unwell. I was detained from visiting you personally, but I hope this gesture makes it up to you in some small way. I will come tomorrow, if you are still ill--though I hope very much to find you recovered in the morning. It grieves me to think of you suffering. I am told you’re being well looked after, and since it was Tyrion who told me, I am inclined to believe it._

_My thoughts and prayers are with you, hoping that you rest easy and well. Please send word if there is anything I can do. I will be with you soon. I anxiously look forward to the next time I can see your smile._

_All my love,_  
_Sansa”_

Jaime had to eat one-handed because he couldn’t stop reading and rereading the note. He could hardly believe she had risked setting such sentiments to paper, where they might easily be intercepted. That alone was proof of her worry, and her guilt over not being able to come to him herself. He was moved by this demonstration of the depths of her feelings for him. He was certain it was her mother who had prevented her from visiting him--the Queen had been making every effort to keep them apart under the guise of ensuring that Sansa was prepared for her future as a wife, mother, and lady of a household. He didn’t mind, really, because it gave him more opportunities to train.

After he had finished his meal, though, his thoughts turned to something more unpleasant.

Cersei had tried to take this from him. She was trying to hinder him, make him too weak to compete. She had already expressed her opinion that Sansa wouldn’t run away with him if he lost, so in her view, she was trying to ensure that Sansa was lost to him forever.

Jaime didn’t know or care why. Perhaps it was spite, for him breaking off all inappropriate relations between them, or jealousy, or simply because she could. It didn’t really matter. Jaime wanted to strangle her all the same, and he had to work very hard to breathe slowly and release the murderous rage building inside of him. He managed to keep himself under control by reminding himself that if he was arrested for murder, he would certainly not be allowed to compete, and he might be executed or sent to the Wall. That would _definitely_ ensure that Sansa was lost to him.

He would have to find another way to express his extreme displeasure to his twin. Unfortunately, he couldn’t count plotting or cunning amongst his attributes. He would have to consult with Tyrion tomorrow--he was good at that sort of thing, and he was bound to have ideas.

 

The atmosphere in the throne room was strange, tense and dark in a way she had never encountered before. Sansa found it very disturbing. Her father’s appearance when he arrived gave her no comfort--he was always a grim man, but now he looked almost defeated. Her mother didn’t look any better, white-faced and downcast, her mouth drawn so tight that her lips had disappeared from view.

The court fell silent when her father stood. Sansa sought Jaime’s eyes--he offered her a smile that failed to encourage her. He had been strained and quiet in the four days since his illness, his face drawn and pale by the end of each day. Jaime brushed it off as pre-tournament anxiety when she expressed concern, but Sansa trusted her instincts. She knew something was wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She thought perhaps he was still ill, though she had seen no signs of it.

Ned’s indrawn breath echoed through the room. “Early this morning, the City Watch arrested Lord Robert Baratheon on the charge of murdering his wife, Lady Cersei Lannister.”

Sansa felt the blood drain from her face and reached out to the rail to steady herself as the world spun. Cersei, dead? Murdered? She hadn’t liked her personally, but to think of her murdered by her own husband--Jaime’s sister, dead?

Jaime….

She raised her eyes with difficulty. Jaime was staring at her father with his mouth open, his face gone a sickly grey. Ser Barristan beside him nudged him, murmuring something, but Jaime didn’t appear to hear him.

Sansa tuned out her father as he announced that there would be a trial after the tournament, turning to leave the throne room. She ran as soon as she was out of sight, lifting her skirts and flying round to the door she knew the Kingsguard would leave by. All of them were in attendance today, save for Ser Meryn, who had disappeared entirely the day that Jaime was ill and had not returned, so Jaime wouldn’t be the one following her parents out through the door to the small council room.

Podrick was by her side a second after she arrived. They exchanged a silent, nervous glance, and turned back toward the door.

Ser Arys had Jaime by the left arm, supporting him, when they came through. His complexion was still grey, his eyes unfocused with shock. She could see him shaking.

“Jaime!” she gasped, and went to him.

He looked up in a strangely jerky motion. When his eyes settled on hers, he let out an inhuman groan and leaned against her. Ser Arys and Podrick switched, murmuring to one another, and Ser Arys excused himself.

“Let’s get him to his rooms,” Sansa said gravely.

Podrick nodded in agreement and they guided him back to his rooms. Jaime didn’t say anything, even after they arrived and sat him on the edge of his bed. Podrick started stripping off his armour, and he just stared at the floor.

A swift knock preceded Tyrion, who didn’t wait for permission to enter. He was pale, too, but clearly not as shaken as Jaime. His eyes were alert and his movements natural.

“Is he all right?” he asked lowly.

Sansa clutched at Jaime’s hand. “I don’t know yet. We’re all still absorbing the shock. When did this happen? Why would he _kill_ her?”

“Last night,” he said, a grim set to his mouth, and accepted the glass of wine Podrick handed him despite the early hour. “He was told by someone that he had better go home to his wife, and he found Cersei in bed with our cousin Lancel. Lancel escaped while Robert went for his war hammer--he’s probably halfway to Casterly Rock by now. I don’t know if Cersei thought he wouldn’t really hurt her or that she could talk him down…. Whatever the reason, she didn’t flee, and he smashed her head in.”

Sansa felt a spike of nausea at the thought. Jaime shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut, and she pressed closer to him, hugging his arm.

She looked back at Tyrion and suspicion rose in her mind. There was something in the way that he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes that didn’t seem right. “Someone” had told Robert, he’d said--but he hadn’t said who, and it wasn’t like him not to know. And why would “someone” know that Cersei was in bed with Lancel, and if they did, why would they tell Robert unless they were _trying_ to get Cersei killed, or at least in serious trouble?

She couldn’t accuse him of anything, particularly not now, with Jaime beside her and so distraught. It was bad enough that his sister and former lover had been murdered--he didn’t need the added shock that his brother might have had a part in it.

“I have to go and write to Father,” he said uneasily, glancing at them briefly. “He must be informed of events as soon as possible.”

Sansa nodded. “I can look after him.”

Tyrion shot her another uneasy look before bowing a little. “My thanks, Princess. Podrick, come along--I don’t trust anyone else to deliver the message to Pycelle when I’m through.”

The squire followed him out, closing the door behind him, and Sansa turned to Jaime as soon as they were alone, reaching up to smooth his hair back.

“Jaime…I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “Are you….”

His eyes remained trained on the floor, his voice distant, strangely detached.

“I thought about killing her, a couple of times. I was angry with her--angry enough that the thought of wringing her neck sounded appealing.” A strange, choked noise out of his throat made him jerk, and tears pooled in his eyes. “But I didn’t mean it,” he said in a small voice, thick with impending tears. “I never would have….”

Her vision blurred with sympathetic tears of her own, her heart aching for him. She could only imagine how she would feel if one of her own siblings was murdered. She held him close, stroking his cheek, trying her best to soothe and comfort him.

“Of course you didn’t mean it,” she murmured, guiding his forehead to rest against her neck. “She was your sister and you loved her. I’m so, so sorry, Jaime.”

He took a few shaky breaths, trying not to give in to his grief, but Sansa pressed a kiss to his ear and he melted against her, weeping freely. He laid his head in her lap as he cried, one hand clutching the loose fabric of her skirts and the other tightly clasped in hers. Sansa petted him and whispered meaningless comfort to him until the tide of grief turned back.

Jaime didn’t move, breathing through his mouth and staring straight ahead through red-rimmed, puffy eyes while she stroked his hair.

“Jaime?” she asked after a while.

He tried to smile at her, but it wobbled at the edges.

“Is there anything I can do?”

He heaved a shuddering sigh and kissed her hand. “Just hold me,” he whispered, his gaze skittering away from hers as though he was ashamed of his need.

Sansa hugged him closer and kept stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

Things were busy over the following week, as the tournament approached and preparations were made for Lord Baratheon’s trial. Tyrion had already informed them that Lord Lannister had been selected as part of the jury, with Prince Oberyn sitting the third chair, and was on his way to King’s Landing. Sansa and Jaime had already decided not to attend the trial--he hadn’t shared his reasons with her and she had opted not to pry, unwilling to upset him. For herself, she had no interest in such a spectacle, and she knew that after the tournament, she would be otherwise occupied with making arrangements with her new husband-to-be.

It seemed unlikely that life was going to slow down at any point, in fact. After the tournament would come her betrothal announcement, then Lord Robert’s trial, and Robb and Margaery’s betrothal announcement, followed by Bran’s fourteenth nameday and arrival at court. After those festivities had ended, Sansa would be wed to whichever man had won her hand, and sometime after that, Robb and Margaery would be married.

She tried not to wonder when she and her husband would find time to move away from King’s Landing to their new home, because the only home she could imagine besides the Red Keep and Winterfell was Casterly Rock. Instead, she occupied herself with looking after Jaime as best she could and seeing to her poorhouses.

Her one regret in all of this that did not alter with the outcome was having to leave her charity work at King’s Landing in the hands of the staff she had cultivated, rather than seeing to it personally every day. She knew she could start new charitable houses wherever she went after the tournament, but she had come to know and love many of those in her care. She had immensely enjoyed watching the little ones grow, and not being in their lives directly anymore was a sad thought. She only reconciled herself to it with the knowledge that she would have had to leave them even if she had accepted any of her suitors.

Jaime still seemed off to her, though she hadn’t worked out what it was, beyond the obvious. He hadn’t been right even before the news of Cersei’s murder, so she knew it was more than grief. He still loved Sansa--he still spent as much time as he could with her, and gave her sweet, gentle kisses when they were alone, and he trained vigorously for the tournament. That only made her worry for him all the more, as the thought of him being struck down by some ill chance, all for the hope of marrying her, stole her breath and drove away all desire to eat or sleep.

He noted her increasing tension and anxiety as the tournament loomed ever nearer.

“I’ve promised you I’ll win,” he said, half comforting and half defensive. “And I mean to do so. You needn’t worry so much, Sansa.”

She looked up at him, her eyes large with fear. “Promise me nothing will happen to you? I would survive if you lost, but if anything should happen to you, I…. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t live with myself if you--”

She broke off, unable to even think the word, let alone speak it.

Jaime softened, cupping her cheek. “I promise, Sansa, I will make it through alive. Please stop worrying.”

She allowed him to hold her close and comfort her, but that night, she laid awake, staring at the ceiling and gnawing at her lip as her imagination conjured up all of the ways in which this tournament could rob her of the man she loved.

 

Jaime had never in his life seen a tournament so large. The ranks of the entrants had swelled so much by the day of that the tents stretched out beyond view. There might not have been room for the Westerlands even if his father had allowed any of them to compete. There were knights familiar to the tourney grounds in pristine armour, and there were also hedge knights and sellswords Jaime had never seen before in rusting or leather armour, the straps fraying, the metal obviously repaired several times.

He gave one of his extra horses to an elderly knight from some minor house whose horse had died during the night, and an old shield to a sellsword who belatedly realised he didn’t have one. Neither of them was likely to win; he found himself feeling rather sorry for them and it made him feel unusually mellow and generous.

His real enemies were those with the means to buy themselves the best, not the poor men clinging to the hope of luck.

“Awful lot of knights and lords from the North and the Riverlands,” Bronn commented idly from the entrance to Jaime’s tent.

He was supposed to be guarding Jaime--not that he needed it--but so far, he’d been more interested in drinking and ogling the passing ladies. Currently, he was picking the dirt from under his nails with a dagger, his feet propped up on an upturned crate. He’d started out as one of Jaime’s opponents, but when Tyrion had offered him a purse of three hundred gold dragons in exchange for guarding and training with Jaime, he had withdrawn immediately, claiming that he liked a sure thing over a gamble any day.

“That’s hardly surprising,” Tyrion said, not looking up from his intent study of the wine decanter. “Princess Sansa is a Stark, and despite being elevated to the throne, the Starks are still the Lords of Winterfell and Wardens of the North. Greatjon Umber has been handling Prince Bran’s training for it and acting as his…regent, for lack of a better term. Bran will come to King’s Landing this year to finish his education, and then after he turns seventeen, he’ll return to Winterfell and take up his duties. Marrying one of the Stark princesses and bringing her back to the North would be viewed with great respect there, not to mention creating a possible claim to inheritance if something should wipe out the other Starks before they produce heirs.”

Bronn was unimpressed. “What about the Riverlands?”

“Prestige, mostly. Marrying a close Tully relation who happens to be royalty.”

Bronn shrugged and went back to watching the passersby.

Jaime and Podrick were silent as the other two bantered back and forth. Podrick seemed to be a ball of nerves, though his hands were steady as he buckled Jaime’s armour into place.

It was plain, polished armour, with no decoration or embellishments, merely functional. He had not wanted to advertise his standing with the Kingsguard or House Lannister for this tournament--he wasn’t fighting for _them_. He had been sorely tempted to commission armour with a direwolf head in prominent display, but his better sense had prevailed for once.

Tyrion said he was being a sentimental fool and that he should just wear his Lannister armour, but he didn’t seem all that surprised or perturbed when Jaime refused.

Jaime was having difficulty gathering his usual eager anticipation before a tournament. He couldn’t even seem to achieve a state of calm. His stomach fluttered ceaselessly and he couldn’t stop flexing his leg.

Pycelle had removed the stitches three days ago, with another warning that the flesh was still weak and tender. Jaime had brushed him off, and Tyrion, too, but the truth was that two weeks of walking and moving normally on it, pretending it didn’t hurt, had left it aching fiercely. It had started buckling on him at the end of the day, protesting its overuse when it was still mending.

That made him nervous, because in a tournament, he couldn’t afford for any of his body parts to fail him unexpectedly--particularly not _this_ tournament. He cursed his stubbornness in forcing himself to train so quickly after the injury. More than that, he cursed Meryn, rotting at the bottom of the Blackwater. Come to that, he cursed Cersei, for giving Meryn the impetus to try his hand at sabotaging the competition.

A pang of guilt and sorrow followed the thought. As angry as he was with Cersei, he hadn’t wanted her dead, not really. She had grown so reckless and careless after he left her, and a part of him felt responsible for her death. He was still her brother, her twin--he should have protected her, should have made sure that she would be all right without him.

Jaime felt that he should be enraged at Robert, but he couldn’t muster any feeling toward Cersei’s husband, other than a general sort of disgust at his hypocrisy. He’d spent years dallying with whores, and yet he felt justified in violently murdering his wife the first time he found her in bed with someone else. It put him in mind of what Sansa had said when she was fending off Joffrey--women were stuck with men, and they had to make the best of it and put up with various kinds of abuse from their husbands without ever putting a toe out of line themselves. It was unfair, and Jaime felt it now more than ever. _He_ would never be so hypocritical with Sansa, he vowed to himself. Not that he could ever see her committing anything he might consider a sin, but if she ever did make a mistake, he would be supportive and forgiving, as she had been with him when she discovered his sins.

The other thought preoccupying him was his children. If Robert was executed or took the black, Joffrey would become the next Lord Baratheon. Jaime very much doubted that he would be good at it, but he would be fine without his parents. He was more concerned about Tommen and Myrcella--what would happen to them without their mother? They were at Storm’s End now, but would they stay there, with Joffrey? The mere thought filled him with horror and dread. The thought of them being fostered with their Baratheon uncles was nearly as painful--Stannis would not understand the children’s gentle, sweet natures, and Renly did not put Jaime in mind of fatherhood. He was likely to be as neglectful as Robert.

But what alternative was there? Fostering with strangers? Jaime couldn’t claim them as his own, but he yearned to take them in now, when they needed him, under the guise of being their uncle. But could he really ask Sansa to start looking after children before they had even started their new lives together? Myrcella was fourteen and would be more of a lady companion, but Tommen was only twelve--still just a boy in many ways.

There was also Tywin to consider. Jaime was nervous enough about subjecting Sansa to him, and Tyrion if he would consent to come with them. How would things be between all of them if he added his children to the mix? Wouldn’t placing them near Tywin be just as bad as them fostering with Stannis?

“Jaime, I’m not terribly knowledgeable about these things, but as far as I know, sitting and contemplating existence doesn’t win tournaments,” Tyrion said dryly.

Jaime shook his head, trying to shake the thoughts away. Podrick handed him his sword and helmet when he stood, and he squared his shoulders before striding out of the tent. He needed to focus on the here and now--if he lost, none of it would matter anyway.

He arrived on the field to find his opponent and two other pairs already standing around, waiting for the royal family to take their seats. There were so many entrants that apparently they were going to have three fights at once. Two sellswords eyed each other warily on the left side of the field, while a hedge knight and one of the two Frey entries had taken the centre and were attempting to warm up by yawning a great deal, from what he could tell.

His opponent was a nervous-looking sellsword, barely a man, his jaw covered with fluff that Jaime supposed was meant to be a beard. He swallowed visibly, his eyes widening, when Jaime stopped a few feet from him and gave his sword an experimental swing.

Jaime tried not to smile.

The crowd around the field suddenly erupted into cheers, clapping and shouting and straining at the rails for a better view. He turned and lost the battle against a very different kind of smile.

Sansa was ascending the steps to the royal box behind her parents, with Prince Robb and Lady Margaery just behind her, and Arya trailing after all of them. Jaime barely registered them--Sansa had his complete attention. She was radiant, showing none of the worry he knew was eating away at her, her face serene, her lips curved in a gentle smile as she graciously and humbly accepted the crowd’s adoration. Her hair was braided with silver ribbons, her flowing gown was white and silver. She looked as though she had stepped out of a song. Jaime’s heart lodged itself in his throat and he fell in love all over again.

He _had_ to win.

He and the other competitors bowed when King Ned turned to face them, but his eyes were for Sansa alone. He registered nothing of Ned’s opening remarks, deaf to everything but his own racing heart.

At long last, Ned sat and the rest of the nobility followed suit. Jaime pulled his helmet on and turned to face his opponent when the herald called for them to begin. The sellsword was clearly still rattled, his stance defensive and his grip on his sword far too tight. Jaime ordinarily might have tried to put the young man at ease, to make it more of a contest for himself.

Not today. He rushed the sellsword with a series of furious blows. The sellsword blocked the first few, and then dropped his sword, yelping.

Jaime didn’t allow him to retreat. He chased him into a corner and battered him until the herald proclaimed Jaime the winner.

He backed off then, smiling and idly swinging his sword. The crowd cheered a bit, but the other two battles were still being fought, so most of them were watching those. Jaime was glad of it, because it meant he could test his left leg without much attention on him. He had made his right leg do most of the work for this first fight--though he hesitated to use the term--but he couldn’t make a habit of it, lest someone notice.

There was a twinge when he shifted his full weight to it, but nothing out of the ordinary yet. He wasn’t satisfied, exactly, but it was the best he could hope for.

 

Sansa made every effort to be fair and appear content, but she knew that her eyes went to Jaime every time he took the field. For the first three days of competition, he took no hits, easily laying waste to his opponents, most of whom were either completely inept or simply intimidated by Jaime’s reputation. He took down sellswords and hedge knights right alongside names like Brynden Blackwood and Ser Jaremy Mallister.

Many of them withdrew after their first few defeats at each other’s hands, realising they were hopelessly outmatched. Most of Jaime’s defeated opponents fell into this group, although Ser Jaremy and one of the sellswords stayed on, cheerfully pointing out that swords weren’t the only way to win.

The minstrels and bards were having a field day with the tournament of hundreds of competitors, all of them for her. Sansa tuned them out after hearing herself described as a “flame-haired ice queen” in one of the songs. It was more than a little embarrassing that there had to be all this fuss simply so she could have a chance at marrying Jaime. Although, there was a small part of her that was pleased that songs were being written about them--Jaime certainly fit the part, she thought. He had chosen plain armour for the tournament, and his squire had polished it until it shone. He was tall and his golden hair stood out every time he removed his helmet.

He looked as though he had stepped out of a song, Sansa thought with a flush of pleasure and love. Her heroic, dashing knight in his shining armour.

It was on the fourth day that she pinpointed what was wrong with him, putting an immediate damper on her enjoyment and fanning the flame of her worry.

Jaime was facing Roose Bolton’s bastard, Ramsay Snow. Ramsay had met with a lot of success thus far in the tournament as well, which was why he had advanced far enough to face Jaime, but Sansa wouldn’t have cared for him even if she hadn’t already given her heart to Jaime. She had often resented the remarks people made about bastards--as a matter of pride, for Jon was a member of the family despite his status, though they had never been close--but Ramsay seemed to fit all of them. He fought almost savagely, using dirty tactics and trickery that were beyond what most people would consider honourable, Sansa included. Jaime never fought like that, even when he was angry. Ramsay was cocky and self-assured, and his smile held a hint of mania that made the fine hairs on her arms and neck rise.

He was, in short, one of the monsters her mother had warned her she might end up marrying. Her eagerness for Jaime to win gained a new dimension when Ramsay stepped into the ring, grinning with eyes just a little too wide, his surcoat showing the inverted colours of his father’s flayed man. It was somehow even more disconcerting than the original.

Jaime had clearly taken his measure in his other matches; he faced him warily, his posture defensive. When they both put on their helmets and the flag dropped, Jaime retreated from Ramsay’s advances, rather than striking out immediately as he usually did.

“Don’t let him corner you,” Sansa heard her father mutter, and when she glanced over, his eyes were fastened to that fight, rather than the two other matches going on, his hands tight around the armrests of his chair.

She turned back to see Jaime wheeling out of the corner, dancing out of reach of Ramsay’s lazy swing. It didn’t look right, for some reason, but she couldn’t pinpoint it until Ramsay suddenly charged.

Jaime blocked and backpedalled from the sudden onslaught--and he stumbled. His left leg seemed to buckle and he stumbled again, moving his weight off of it. He recovered quickly enough, but Sansa saw it--and so did Ramsay.

He circled around to Jaime’s right, trying to push him back onto his left leg. Jaime kept turning to try to keep him to the left, trying to make sure he bore the brunt of his weight on his right leg. They circled fruitlessly for so long that the other two matches ended and the crowd started to mutter restlessly.

“He’s only a bastard!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“Finish him, Kingslayer!”

On the other side of the crowd, Northern voices took up the call for Ramsay.

“Show ’em what we do to oathbreakers in the North!”

“Snow all over the pretty fucker!”

The goading didn’t make Jaime move any faster, but it spurred Ramsay on. He darted forward with another furious series of slashes. Jaime blocked with shield and sword--until one blow made it through his defences, landing solidly on the armour of his left thigh. Sansa sat bolt upright when she heard Jaime’s yell. He never cried out during a fight--never.

“Jaime,” she whispered.

Her mother reached out and gripped her hand. She held on tightly, knowing she would fly to his side if she didn’t.

One of the attendants placed a peg for Ramsay--one hit to none.

That seemed to get through to Jaime. He began moving faster, feinting back and forth, riling Ramsay with erratic shifts. He was staying off of his left leg as much as possible, hampering him, but she could see that Ramsay was losing his temper anyway, each slash and charge growing wilder.

“Come on, Ser Jaime,” her mother said under her breath.

They gripped each other’s hands tighter.

Ramsay backed up and charged, running full tilt. Jaime spun away on his left leg, and Ramsay was going too fast to stop. He ran straight into the rail and bounced off, sprawling on his back.

Jaime kicked his sword away and stepped on his shield, pinning it to the ground. He hit Ramsay on the chest with his sword six times in quick succession--and just like that, the match was over.

He limped away from Ramsay while the herald announced his victory and the crowd cheered. Both combatants removed their helmets and bowed to the royal box. Ramsay’s jaw was set, his eyes fiery with rage, and he stormed off the field without waiting for a response to his courtesy. Jaime’s face was pale and sweaty and pinched, and he lingered a moment after being acknowledged--gathering the strength to walk, she realised as he turned and limped off the field, head down. He hadn’t looked at Sansa once, avoiding her gaze.

She was half out of her chair when her mother stopped her, gripping her wrist and shaking her head.

“But Jaime’s _hurt_ ,” Sansa said, pleading. “I have to go to him!”

“The other competitors--”

“I don’t care about any of them, I care about Jaime!”

Her father spoke up then, quiet and calm. “You’ll wound his pride, Sansa. If he’d wanted you to know, he would have told you he was injured before the tournament started.”

She sat hard in her chair. “He…he was already hurt _before_ …?”

“He’s been favouring that leg since day one,” Robb put in soberly.

Ned nodded. “Let him go, Sansa. A man can survive a wounded leg easier than wounded pride.”

Reluctantly, she relaxed back into her seat--but not without shooting a glance at Adylla. Her handmaiden gave a nod and slipped away as the next match began. Theon Greyjoy was facing off with Dickon Tarly in one of the rings. As much as she longed to see Sam’s favoured younger brother knocked off his feet, she doubted the Greyjoy boy, who had spent most of his life fostered in the Vale with one of Lord Robert’s bastards, would be the one to do it, so it failed to keep her attention. She kept looking behind her, waiting for Adylla to return with a report.

 

Jaime sat biting his lip while Pycelle prodded at his leg. He drew in a sharp breath through his nose when he poked at the middle of the healing gash. It felt hot and hard, the pressure making the rest of his leg throb and quiver. The skin was dark red over the spot where the Bolton bastard had hit him.

“Well, now everyone knows your weak spot,” Tyrion said flatly, standing with his arms folded, his eyes glued to the swelling. “And whoever wins these next few matches, your competition is bound to be better than who you’ve faced up to now, so you will probably have to be able to walk.”

“It’s not like I meant to let him hit me,” Jaime said, strained despite his effort to sound nonchalant. “He knew already--I don’t know how, but he knew exactly where to hit me.”

“You haven’t been hiding it as well as you think you have,” Bronn said, unconcerned.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “And you’re just now mentioning this because…?”

He shrugged. “It didn’t matter because he was defending his left side so well that nobody could touch it anyway. Well, nobody up to now.”

“It would be best if you withdrew,” Pycelle said gravely. “The new injury coupled with the continued stress--”

“I don’t care,” Jaime snapped, but the tent flap opened before he could work himself into a rage.

Sansa’s handmaiden immediately spotted the wound and she paled at the sight of it.

“Wait!” Jaime cried when she turned to leave.

He jumped off the table to follow her, but his leg buckled on contact and he dropped to his knees, choking off a cry at the stab of pain. When he looked up, panting, Bronn had her by the arm, preventing her from leaving.

“You can’t even stand, how do you plan to continue competing?” Tyrion asked, worry and frustration turning his tone sharp.

“My lord, you really shouldn’t--” Pycelle sputtered.

Jaime ignored both of them, gripping the table and hauling himself upright, his left leg dangling uselessly. It throbbed even then. He pulled his breeches up so his private bits and the injury were no longer on display, and then he looked at the handmaiden.

“What’s your name?” he asked hoarsely. “Alyssa, was it?”

“Adylla,” she corrected, reddening.

“Adylla--I must ask you--” He broke off, wincing, when his toes touched the ground, and settled himself in a chair. “You can’t tell Sansa about this.”

She straightened, flushing deeper. “My lord, I cannot lie to my Princess--”

“Please. Then tell her…tell her I am mildly injured, but that I’ll be all right and I told her not to worry,” he pleaded.

She hesitated, clearly torn.

“You may as well,” Tyrion said, huffing. “This _fucking idiot_ is going to carry on anyway, so it’s best if your mistress doesn’t know the extent of the problem. It will only make her worry more.”

“I can’t quit _now_! I only have to win three more matches and the hard part is over.”

“Or lose once.”

Jaime slammed his fist on the table, frustrated and angry with Tyrion, with Meryn Trant for getting the better of him, with his body for failing him when he needed it most. The very real fear that he might lose choked him and he found himself struggling to maintain what little dignity he had left.

“I _can’t quit_ ,” he said in a strangled voice. “I will win or I will die trying, do you understand?!”

“Jaime, death is a very real possibility at this point,” Tyrion said, coming around the table to meet his eyes. “You _are_ killing yourself, do _you_ understand that? You can barely stand, you can’t stop shaking. There is something seriously wrong with your leg and you _need_ to _stop_.”

He looked away, rubbing at his face in an agitated gesture. Fresh and old sweat collected on his hand--he hadn’t stopped sweating even after his armour was removed, but he felt chilled. He probably had a fever--the wound was probably infected, under the skin.

The tears welled up and he said farewell to his dignity when they refused to blink away.

“I can’t,” he choked. “I promised her….”

“Don’t you think she would rather have you break your promise and live than die trying to keep it?” Tyrion asked, desperation creeping into his tone.

He shook his head slowly. “She--she wouldn’t look at me the same, after--and what if Cersei was right?”

Tyrion blinked. “Right about what?”

“She said--she said no woman would ever give up the sure knowledge of her accustomed lifestyle for the love and flimsy promises of a man.” Jaime tried to shore up his chin when it wobbled. “What if I lose, and Sansa won’t…? I can’t lose her.”

He sighed, reaching out to put his hand over Jaime’s. “Cersei didn’t know what other women would do. She only knew what _she_ would do. Just because she would never run away with you doesn’t mean Sansa wouldn’t. And I don’t think she would look at you any differently. She saw you with Cersei, and that didn’t change anything, did it?”

He pulled away miserably. “But it could have. The rest of the world already sees me as an oathbreaker, but Sansa--she has faith in me. I can’t--I can’t prove them right,” he admitted. “I promised her that I would win. I can’t break that promise and risk her not believing in me anymore. She’s the only one who does.”

Tyrion smiled grimly. “That’s not true, Jaime.”

He finally looked up and they stared at one another for a long moment. He nodded once, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, and Tyrion turned to Pycelle.

“Is there anything you can do before his next match?”

Pycelle opened his mouth, but Podrick burst in before he could answer. Sansa’s handmaiden took the opportunity to slip away. Bronn merely shrugged when Jaime glared at him. He could only hope Adylla wouldn’t tell Sansa anything--or the bare minimum, at least.

“Theon Greyjoy beat Dickon Tarly soundly,” Podrick announced breathlessly. “Ser Loras beat Ser Vardis of the Vale, so Ser Loras and Theon will be facing one another after luncheon. Smalljon Umber beat Lyonel, the sellsword.”

Bronn sucked his teeth. “Poor old bugger.”

Podrick ignored him, turning to Jaime and Tyrion. “Your match against Prince Trystane is in twenty minutes. Whoever wins faces Smalljon Umber after Ser Loras and Theon Greyjoy’s match.”

Tyrion’s brows rose. “Very well--Pycelle, is there anything you can do in the next twenty minutes?”

“Fifteen,” Jaime corrected. “Podrick and I need at least five minutes to get my armour back in place.”

Pycelle sputtered for a bit, but eventually he admitted that there was nothing he could do in that short space of time.

“I can prepare a poultice for after your fight with Prince Trystane and apply it, and that may help if you have another match after that,” he said grudgingly.

Tyrion snapped his fingers. “Then get preparing. Podrick, help me wrap his leg. Perhaps the pressure will help him stay upright.”

Twenty minutes later, Jaime was limping to the field, his entourage scurrying after him. Sansa was sitting straight and pale, but he couldn’t tell just by looking at her how much her handmaiden had revealed.

Trystane was smiling lazily, his sword slung over one shoulder as he watched Jaime limp onto the field.

“It would have been much easier if your princess had just accepted my hand from the beginning, without all this fanfare,” he said, bordering on smug in his confidence. “But then, let it never be said of the Dornish that we shy from a challenge. And I think we all enjoy a bit of excitement now and again.”

Jaime didn’t acknowledge him at all. At the moment, it was all he could do to stay upright.

“Lost your taste for conversation, old man? I always heard you were a talker,” he tried again, an edge creeping into his tone.

He cocked an eye at him--Trystane was called “prince,” but he was really nothing more than a silly boy, overconfident and rash. Much like Sansa’s brother before him, he didn’t seem to know that his success was due mostly to his status--and to the fact that his uncle was well known to be very knowledgeable on the subject of poisons. Prince Oberyn had kept a close eye on his nephew, and there were few foolish enough to risk his wrath.

Jaime smiled at Trystane and pulled his helmet on.

The flag dropped, and the young prince immediately came at him, his sword flashing in elegant, rapid gestures unique to the Dornish. Jaime lazily blocked and retreated, blocked and retreated, taking his time, coddling his sore leg because there was no need to push it in this battle. Trystane was all show, no substance, and as long as he didn’t allow himself to become distracted by the complex movements, it took a minimum of effort and skill on his part to keep the young prince on the outside of his defences.

Unlike the Bolton bastard, Trystane didn’t fight with his head at all--it didn’t take long at all for him to start losing his temper.

He paused for a moment, hissing through his teeth. “Stand and fight me, coward!”

“When you start fighting, I will,” Jaime drawled.

Trystane let out an angry cry and charged him wildly, his sword raised high.

Jaime sidestepped and whacked him in the back of the leg as he went by for good measure.

Trystane crumpled to the ground, losing his grip on his sword. Jaime kicked it away and put his swordpoint at the younger man’s throat when he rolled over. He glared at Jaime, pushing off his helmet without getting up.

Jaime raised his brows.

He spoke through gritted teeth. “Yield.”

Jaime smiled and removed his sword from Trystane’s throat, offering him a hand up. The prince was young and rash, but he was being raised with some manners--he accepted the help without a word and nodded curtly to Jaime in thanks while the herald proclaimed Jaime’s win.

The honour in defeat softened Jaime. “Next time, don’t let your emotions get the better of you--you need to keep a clear head to win.”

Trystane shot him a surprised look, and slowly nodded. “I…will try to remember that, Ser Jaime.”

He nodded once and they both bowed to the royal box before going their separate ways. Jaime’s leg was throbbing and he thought it might crumple at every step, but by some miracle, he made it back to his tent.

Pycelle was already waiting, one of the smaller tables covered in equipment--several bottles full of different but equally noxious substances, a stack of bandages, another stack of cloths, a roll of thread. He was holding a knife over a candle.

Jaime went stock still. “What’s that for?”

Pycelle didn’t look up. “Strip down and lie on the table. I’ll have to cut the wound open and drain the infection, then I can pack it with the poultice.”

Jaime didn’t move, and he finally looked up, scowling.

“Hurry him up,” he snapped at Tyrion, gesturing toward Jaime. “This will take at least an hour, if not two, and that’s all the time his squire says we can count on.”

Tyrion nudged Jaime, who reluctantly began removing his armour with Podrick’s help.

“Are you sure this is necessary?”

Pycelle glared at him from under his brows. “Do I question your technique when you go off banging people with your sword?”

Jaime frowned, conceding that.

It felt good to lie down at first, removing the weight from his leg, but the relief was short-lived. Pycelle was soon working over the hot, hard spot, and even the slight pressure as he washed the spot made Jaime grit his teeth and blink tears from his eyes.

“I can get you some milk of the poppy, but you won’t be fit to fight,” Pycelle said, but in a resigned tone.

“No,” Jaime said flatly.

He didn’t bother to argue. “Best get him something to bite on.”

Podrick found a leather strap. Jaime was soon grateful for it, as he probably would have bitten through his lips and tongue when Pycelle cut into the hard spot. The tent immediately filled with the smell of infection and he could feel sticky liquid oozing down his skin from the cut. He panted through his nose and kept his eyes squeezed shut as Pycelle continued his work, and he went away inside, back to the Kingsroad with Sansa. For too long and not long enough, there was only her smiles and the flash of her red hair in the sun beside the sparkling Trident.

He blinked back to himself to find Pycelle gone and his leg cleaned and wrapped. Podrick had lit some incense in a corner, banishing the awful smells.

Tyrion was watching him, his brow creased with worry. “Are you all right? You wouldn’t answer when Pycelle was checking on you. He said you might have gone into shock--he went to get some smelling salts.”

Jaime pushed himself up onto his elbows with an effort. “I wasn’t here--I was with Sansa.”

He frowned, but didn’t question the odd response. “How does your leg feel now?”

He shook his head. “Not sure yet.”

Tyrion waited and watched him while he slowly sat up, testing his sore leg. There was a pull when he bent it--it was sewn shut under the bandages. The pressure had abated, taking much of the feeling of oppressive heat with it.

He tentatively put his foot on the floor and hissed.

“Were you expecting an instant cure?” Tyrion asked.

The tent flap opened, making Jaime tense instinctively, but it was only Pycelle.

“Oh. You’re awake now,” he said, blinking owlishly.

Tyrion snorted, heading for the wine decanter. “Obviously. You can go now.”

“B-but--”

Bronn’s arm appeared through the flap and forcibly yanked the old man back outside.

Jaime blew out a breath and accepted his breeches when Podrick handed them over.

“How long until I face Umber?” he asked, grunting a bit as his leg protested being bent.

Podrick shook out his shirt and handed it over. “Ser Loras and Theon Greyjoy are headed to the lists now, so probably no more than twenty minutes.”

He tried to grin. “Think we can make it out there in time to see it?”

Podrick smiled a bit anxiously back.

“At the rate you’re moving, you’ll be lucky if you make it out there in time to see next year’s tournament.”

Jaime rolled his eyes at his brother--but he quit talking and focused on dressing.

They didn’t make it in time to see the fight, but they were in time to see Loras and a bloodied Greyjoy bowing at the end of the match. The herald announced Loras’s victory to the crowd’s obvious approval.

“No surprise there,” Tyrion said.

“It is surprising it went on as long as it did,” Bronn commented mildly. “The Greyjoy was better than anyone expected.”

“Not good enough.”

Jaime said nothing, but as he watched the boy leave the field, he was privately relieved that Loras had eliminated him. On any other day, he would have wiped the field with him--today, he wasn’t sure. At least he knew Loras from having fought him before. He had no idea what the Greyjoy boy would do, and he was feeling tired and old.

A part of him hoped that there would be another tournament with many of these new competitors returning. If his leg was healed and Sansa would let him fight, he would relish the challenge.

Today, he wished all of his competition was as easy as that first sellsword. What he got was Smalljon Umber.

Despite the name, the Smalljon was as big as a bear, tall and broad and round with muscle. He swung his greatsword, grinning, and Jaime felt his heart sink. The Umber was a smaller, more agile version of the Hound, with no allegiance to House Lannister--he wouldn’t be handed the victory this time.

“Are you ready for me, Kingslayer?” the Smalljon asked as the herald announced the match.

Jaime grimaced and raised his sword. “Ready or not, it seems to be our time.”

The Smalljon looked surprised by that response, but he moved into his stance anyway.

“That it does.”

They circled one another for a while. Pycelle’s work had aided his leg enough that he could use it again, but he still limped badly, trying not to overwork it back to the point of collapse. There was no question that the Smalljon noticed--everyone noticed.

Despite Jaime’s efforts to keep them circling to the right, the Smalljon pushed to the left, forcing him to lead on his bad leg. He gritted his teeth and blocked another heavy blow that kept him from retreating back to the right.

Umber was trying to tire him out, he realised. He was keeping him on his off leg to try to exhaust him into losing, the way Jaime himself had done with many of the elderly competitors.

Jaime bristled at the thought. He would not be toyed with like some old cur. He was in the top five greatest swordsmen in the world, and he wouldn’t lose so shamefully.

His eyes turned to studying the Smalljon, his technique, how he moved, seeking out an exploitable weakness.

Umber didn’t use a shield, keeping both arms free to wield his greatsword, and he angled his body so the left arm led the way, even when they were circling to the right in the beginning. Experimentally, Jaime feinted at the Smalljon’s right, quickly switching to the left after.

His response to his right side was slow.

“This is going to hurt,” Jaime muttered, bracing himself.

The Smalljon paused, apparently having heard him speak, but not what he said. Jaime seized the moment, charging at his vulnerable right side. This required leading with his left, but he gritted his teeth and bore the pain, unwilling to give up the advantage he’d just gained.

His sudden, rapid charge had thrown the Smalljon off balance and into retreat, his parries desperate and clumsy. Jaime didn’t allow him to recover. He summoned every ounce of skill and speed at his command and followed him relentlessly, his blade nothing but a blur. The clang of steel filled his ears and Jaime felt the joy of the fight in his blood again. It gave him fresh energy and dulled the pain, spurring him to move faster, to hit harder, to chase his quarry and batter him again and again and--

“ _Yield_!”

He barely stayed his sword in time, rocking back a step to halt his momentum. The Smalljon had dropped to one knee, his sword lying on the ground. Both of them were heaving from the effort.

Jaime nodded in acknowledgement and held out a hand to help Umber to his feet. The crowd erupted into screams and cheers and howls when the herald confirmed Jaime’s victory. He pulled his helmet off, grinning dazedly. He had never heard such undimmed approval for any of his victories, and the only other time he had heard such enthusiasm directed at himself, the Mad King had been draping a white cloak over his shoulders.

He had thought it the greatest moment of his life at the time, but this was a thousand times sweeter. He turned to the royal box and saw Sansa grinning widely, clapping as hard as she could. Tyrion was by the rail with Podrick, both of them smiling broadly and applauding him.

Jaime felt as though a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He hadn’t won yet--but he had never been happier. He bowed to a slightly less grim than usual King Ned. Even Queen Catelyn was smiling, looking at her daughter.

“Your reputation as a swordsman is well deserved,” the Smalljon said when they both straightened. “It was a good match.”

He held out his hand. Jaime blinked in surprise before clasping it for a firm shake.

“Indeed, it was,” he said sincerely.

If he’d been in top form, it wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting, but as things stood, he hadn’t had a good fight like that in a long time.

There was a break between the end of that match and his match against Loras, but Jaime didn’t return to his tent. The walk felt too far after the adrenaline faded and his leg reminded him that it was still injured and hadn’t appreciated his forgetting. Instead, Podrick found him a chair and he sat in the shade of one of the pavilions full of refreshments nearby. People milled about, whispering and shooting glances at him, but they kept a respectful distance and their glances were more appraising than anything else.

Best of all, while he heard one or two of them mutter “Kingslayer,” more often he heard his name or “the Lion of Lannister” bandied about. It felt good--like he had turned back time and undone any deeds anyone thought of as shameful. Tomorrow, he was sure they would all remember that he was considered a man without honour and go back to sneering at him, but Jaime was determined to enjoy the widespread approval while it lasted.

“It’s time, ser,” Podrick said all too soon.

Jaime forced himself to his feet. Sitting was a mistake. His leg had stiffened.

“Only one more fight, my lord,” Podrick said encouragingly.

He tried to smile in appreciation of his faithful squire’s effort, but he suspected it was more of a grimace.

“Perhaps we can convince the Hound to carry you out to the field for the archery contest.”

Jaime jumped at Bronn and Tyrion’s sudden appearance beside them.

“Where have you been?”

Tyrion walked with a distinct jaunty swagger that hadn’t been there before he disappeared. Bronn looked satisfied and amused.

“Oh, just collecting a few debts,” Tyrion drawled, smiling.

Jaime frowned. “The swords contest isn’t over yet, let alone the whole tournament.”

His smile broadened. “I know. Bronn and I will be making the rounds again after you defeat Loras Tyrell, and perhaps again at the end of the tournament, assuming you don’t die of infection and pigheadedness before then.”

“Since you’ve been so convinced of my defeat since before the tournament ever started, I’m surprised you bet on me,” Jaime said with an edge in his voice.

His eyes widened and he put a hand over his heart in mock surprise. “You wound me! As if I would ever bet against my dearly beloved brother. You could be dragging yourself along with one arm and holding your sword in your teeth and I would still put my money on you.”

He tried not to smile, but the sentiment was too pleasing.

“That’s more like it,” Tyrion said cheerfully. “Now go show that Tyrell rose that claws are sharper than thorns.”

Bronn snorted derisively behind them.

“I think he meant _longer_ than thorns,” Podrick said in an undertone.

“I can’t judge that,” Bronn said, shrugging. “I haven’t seen Tyrell’s sword for comparison.”

Jaime coughed to hide his amusement as Podrick tried to puzzle that one out, as they had, in fact, seen Loras’s sword throughout the tournament. Tyrion shook his head, grinning.

Podrick’s eyes popped when it clicked and he turned red.

Chuckling, Jaime left them at the rail, limping onto the field.

Loras was already there, uncharacteristically still and grim.

“I thought perhaps you’d decided to forfeit,” he said, clearly relieved that that was not the case. “You’re late.”

Jaime shrugged. “Took me a while to get moving again, but I’m here now.”

Loras’s gaze drifted to Jaime’s injured leg. “I don’t want to win--you know that. But I have to make it look like I’m trying, or my grandmother will marry me off to the most intolerable woman she can dig up.”

Jaime nodded curtly. “Understood.”

Loras nodded back and they both bowed to the royal box. The crowd went from loud, restless murmuring and shuffling to excited screaming and cheering in an instant.

The fight was nothing like their usual dances. Despite beating Loras every time they met in tourneys, Jaime found their matches quite exhilarating. Loras wasn’t as skilled as he was, but he always gave it his best, and his best was considerably better than most of the competition. He actually had to try in their fights, and it made him happy.

Not today. He and Loras danced back and forth quickly enough that it would hopefully fool Olenna Tyrell, but it was all false, as though they had carefully choreographed it ahead of time.

Loras kept seeking his left side, apparently so focused on looking for an opening that his own defences fell, letting Jaime get in a hit to his shoulder or chest before they broke apart, circled, and began again. In this way, he quickly amassed the six hits necessary to win, and Loras conceded with badly acted disappointment, his relieved glance at Renly giving him away.

It was honourless and fake, and Jaime would have been furious under any other circumstances.

Today, with Tyrion grinning as he collected another purse of gold, the crowd so wild with enthusiastic approval that they broke the fence, Sansa glowing with pride and joy, and even disapproving old Ned Stark looking ever so slightly pleased, Jaime didn’t care.

He was that much closer to winning Sansa’s hand, and that was all that mattered.

 

Jaime was eliminated from the archery round midway through the second day, but Sansa was stuck watching the other competitors when he limped off the field. She couldn’t abandon her own archery contest, no matter how much she longed to go to him, and so she smiled and clapped politely while Anguy and Theon Greyjoy steadily out-shot their competition. There would still be a third and fourth day of it to watch.

She wasn’t really focused on it at all. She kept remembering how hard Jaime had tried. Archery wasn’t his strong suit, but he had concentrated with complete seriousness each time he faced the target, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as though he was a boy struggling over his letters again. She had enjoyed watching him, warmed by his efforts, but then he had shot two arrows in a row that went wide of the target, losing him the contest. His devastation was almost palpable, though she and the crowd had clapped for him anyway.

Sansa had agreed to stay away from Jaime for the duration of the tournament, but she hadn’t actually _promised_ , and she made up her mind to go to him when he didn’t come to the feast that night. Usually, even if he was clearly longing for his bed, he donned his Kingsguard armour at the end of the day and returned to his post from the beginning of the feast until the entirety of the royal family retired for the night. His absence was a clear sign that something was wrong.

She tried to slip away during the feast while her parents were occupied with talking to the Tyrells.

“Princess Sansa--going so soon?”

She stiffened at the sound of Prince Oberyn’s voice. She turned and only marginally relaxed when she realised it wasn’t Trystane with him, only his paramour.

She dipped a respectful nod to both of them. “Prince Oberyn, Lady Ellaria. I do hope you’re enjoying yourselves.”

“Well enough,” Oberyn said with a lazy smile. “After enough feasting, it tends to grow stale.”

Sansa’s eyes darted to the door behind them and back. “I…confess that I, too, am growing weary of it.”

Ellaria smiled knowingly. “Perhaps that explains why you are in such a rush to leave?”

She blushed, ducking her head, and groped for an excuse, but Oberyn spoke again before anything came to mind.

“You really love your Lion of Lannister, don’t you?” He tsked, shaking his head. “Such a pity. You would have loved Dorne, and Dorne would have loved you. It seems a shame for you to spend the rest of your days locked away in a cold, dark castle when you could have spent your days in the sun.”

Sansa hesitated. She had no desire to start a war with hasty words, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie.

“Prince Oberyn…the sands of Dorne are indeed famed for their warmth and beauty. It is said that your country has never known a day without sun. But I am a wolf of the North, and the heat of your sand would only cause me to wither without the kiss of snow. The cold, if Casterly Rock is indeed so, suits me very well--and the heart wanders where it wishes, without reference to need or duty.”

She bit her lip when she finished speaking, but her anxiety was unfounded. Oberyn looked more amused than anything else, and he raised a glass in salute.

“Well said, Princess. I think I like you, despite your taste in company.”

“Your beau must win the joust if he is to win your hand, correct?” Ellaria asked. “Since he did so poorly in the archery.”

Sansa nodded, trying to suppress a grimace. “So my brother tells me, as Theon Greyjoy is expected to place highly in the archery and also finished very well in the swords. Loras Tyrell and your own nephew are much the same--highly placed in the swords, and they have not yet been eliminated from the archery contest. Smalljon Umber as well, I believe.”

“Ramsay Snow, too,” Oberyn added, watching her face intently. “He is a better archer than anyone expected, though I expect him to be out tomorrow.”

She made an effort to smooth her expression. “A necessary skill in the North, Prince Oberyn. The Umbers even teach their women to hunt, rather than letting them starve.”

He grinned as though she had given something away anyway.

Ellaria took his arm. “Come, my love. We shouldn’t tease her.”

They finally moved aside, going to her parents.

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief and hurried out the side door before anyone else could approach her. The servants bowed or curtsied as she passed, but none of them tried to stop her. The halls outside of Jaime’s chambers were empty, much to her relief. She didn’t need any spies reporting her evening visit.

The door opened and Tyrion emerged just as she approached. He did a double-take when he spotted her, putting a hand out.

“My Princess--you shouldn’t be here,” he said lowly, looking around for observers.

Sansa folded her hands neatly. “Why not? Don’t I have a right to check on the health of my--one of my…suitors?”

Tyrion snorted, unamused. “While that is a very interesting way of putting it, you know what other people will think.”

“Then we won’t tell them, will we?” she said with haughty confidence she didn’t feel.

She really hadn’t expected resistance from Tyrion, of all people, and it was sowing seeds of doubt. What if Jaime didn’t want to see her, and Tyrion was just trying to protect her feelings?

Tyrion sighed. “Sansa, this is foolhardy for several reasons. You should go to bed. Even if, by some miracle, no one saw you making your way down here, Jaime isn’t…exactly in a mood for company.”

She swallowed, the doubt growing. “What do you mean?”

He waved a hand. “Never mind that. Just go to your chambers and go to bed. It isn’t safe for you to wander around alone, particularly not now.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. He was avoiding her gaze again, bringing to mind the day of Cersei’s murder.

“You mean with people murdering Lannisters,” she said sharply.

That got his attention. His head snapped up and he stared at her with wide eyes. He swallowed, and she could see the gears in his head turning as he worked out what to say. She decided to be frank--it seemed he wouldn’t start this conversation unless forced.

“You know more than you’re saying about Cersei’s death. I know you do. And you’re trying to hide Jaime’s injury from me now, but I already know he was hurt even before the tournament. He would never say anything, but I could tell something was wrong. Tell me, Tyrion,” she said, softening at the end. “Please. There must be something I can do to help.”

He smiled. It was bitter and regretful, painful to look upon. “Sansa, we Lannisters do not deserve your help. We’re a greedy, cruel, ambitious breed who even stomp on each other in our efforts to reach the top.”

Her brow wrinkled. “You--you wouldn’t have--I know you disliked Cersei, but Jaime--”

Tyrion chuckled. “Yes, you could believe that _I_ was responsible for Cersei’s murder, hmm?”

Her face heated and she quickly backtracked. “No! I mean, I thought--I don’t know what I thought, but it wasn’t that you were _responsible_ \--just that--”

He raised a hand. “You don’t need to explain. I would have suspected me, too. And I _do_ know a _bit_ more than I let on. I didn’t have anything to do with Robert finding out about Cersei’s infidelities, but--I suspect that my father did.”

Sansa felt the blood drain from her face and raised her hand to the wall to steady herself. “Lord Tywin? His--his own daughter? He wouldn’t--he couldn’t!”

“He could, with a little help,” Tyrion said lowly, looking around again. “I suspect he had a little help from Lord Baelish. He’s good at arranging these sorts of things without getting his hands dirty.”

She shook her head. “But--why? Why would he kill his own daughter?”

“Because she tried to take Jaime out of the tournament,” he admitted, blowing out a breath. “She paid Meryn Trant, the swine, to slice his leg open the morning after your nameday. She tried to bribe Pycelle to drug him, as well, but apparently he’s more afraid of my father than he was of her. I tried to convince Jaime to withdraw afterwards, but he’s a stubborn jackass.”

She blanched for a second time and had to lean against the wall. No wonder Jaime had been limping--how much pain he must have been in! She ached just thinking about it.

“My father had already made it clear that anyone in his sphere of influence who dared to interfere with Jaime’s chances in the tournament would face the kind of consequence that has, in the past, inspired a quite popular song,” he said flatly. “You have to understand, Sansa--this is about more than getting a son married to a princess, although that is extremely valuable in itself. If Jaime wins this tournament, then he is released from the Kingsguard--he becomes the heir to Casterly Rock again, with a princess for a wife in the bargain. This is the kind of opportunity that won’t come again. It’s everything my father could possibly dream of, practically gift-wrapped and handed to him on a gold serving plate, and Cersei foolishly tried to take it from him. She wanted to keep Jaime for herself, and she lost. She had already played her part--she married Robert and got him an heir and a spare, thereby keeping a Lannister presence at court. My father had no further use for her, she was coming very close to disgracing the family with her behaviour, and she got in the way of something my father wanted. I think my father assumed that Robert would have her publicly tried and perhaps sent to live with the silent sisters--but I also don’t think he cared that she was killed instead.”

It took her a long time to absorb that. The sheer calculating ruthlessness wasn’t a mindset she was familiar with. When she finished, she immediately felt a surge of worry for Tyrion.

“What about you? He won’t hurt you, will he?”

He smiled that same painful smile. “Currently, I am the only heir, unless my father wishes to allow Casterly Rock to pass to one of our cousins--which I assure you, he most emphatically does not, and I’ve been helping Jaime prepare for the tournament, rather than hindering him. Therefore, I am safe at the moment. If Jaime wins, I will become the spare to his heir again, and I will be safe until you bear Jaime a son.”

Sansa paled. “But--I don’t want anything to happen to you. And Jaime loves you.”

He softened at last, reaching out to take her hand and patting it. “Don’t worry. I can look after myself. I’m…considering my options at the moment, but don’t worry, I will be safe.” He looked around again at the lengthening shadows. “Now, I strongly advise you to turn around and go to bed.”

She straightened from the wall, lifting her chin. “I’m not going anywhere without seeing Jaime first.”

Tyrion sighed again, rubbing his forehead. “The Gods protect me from lovestruck fools,” he muttered. “Sansa, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. Jaime threw a book at me just before I came out into the hall.”

That brought her up short. It wasn’t like Jaime at all.

He smiled grimly at her expression. “Pycelle has confined him to bed until the jousting begins, and between that and his loss today, Jaime is not in the greatest of moods. He took my suggestion that he spend the time reading poorly.”

She chuckled despite herself. “He’s never liked reading.”

“No, not even adventure stories,” he agreed lightly. “Although he doesn’t seem to mind when you read aloud to him.” He sobered again. “I just don’t want you to be hurt if he is…less than gentlemanly.”

Sansa raised her brows. “I think I can handle a grouchy knight. I appreciate your concern, but I really won’t be able to sleep until I see for myself that he’s all right.”

He lifted his hands in surrender, backing away. “Very well--but I did warn you. And do try not to be seen when you leave.”

She watched him go around the corner before she cautiously opened the door, poking her head inside. Jaime was lying still with his head turned away from the door. His injured leg was wrapped in bandages, but the blankets were pulled back so as not to touch it. There were a few candles lit on the table, but not enough to dispel the shadows. Her nose stung with the scent of Pycelle’s concoctions despite the slight breeze from the open window.

“Go away, Tyrion,” Jaime muttered without moving.

“He left,” Sansa said lightly, stepping in fully and leaning back against the door. “It’s only me.”

His head whipped around at the sound of her voice and he shot up into a sitting position.

“Sansa! You--what are you doing here?” he asked with a frantic note in his voice, flipping the blankets over his leg.

She pursed her lips and approached without answering. He winced but didn’t protest when she pulled the blankets back, running her fingers lightly over the edge of the bandage. She sat beside him, shaking her head, and laid her hand on his bare knee.

“I wish you had told me you were hurt,” she murmured without looking up. “I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what, and when Ramsay hit you, I….”

She broke off, swallowing hard.

He laid his hand over hers, his tone considerably gentler. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to worry you.”

That stung, because she _had_ worried, constantly, barely able to eat or sleep because she was so consumed with fear for him.

“Tyrion told me he tried to convince you to withdraw after you were injured. I wish you would have.”

He snatched his hand back as though he’d been burnt. “You _wish_ I _would_ have?! Excuse me, I must have been terribly mistaken when I thought you arranged this tournament in the first place so you could marry _me_!”

Sansa finally looked up and found that he had turned his head away and was staring at the wall, grinding his jaw in a vain attempt to quell the tears. She tried to take his hand, but he folded his arms, tucking his hands away.

“Jaime….”

“Of course, you never actually _said_ that it was me you wanted to marry,” he went on bitterly. “I just _assumed_ that--”

She clapped one hand on either side of his head and forced him to look at her. “Not at the expense of your life! I would rather spend the rest of my life miserable with Ramsay or Joffrey and know you were alive and safe than have to go on after--”

She choked off, still unable to say the words. She had his attention now, though; he watched her with a vulnerable expression, still trying to blink away the tears that kept gathering.

“You promised me, remember?” she said, soft but earnest. “You promised me you would make it through this tournament alive. I can accept any broken promises but that one. I wouldn’t survive it.”

Jaime swallowed hard, but his voice was still thick when he spoke. “And I can’t bear to lose you. If I had withdrawn, I would have had no chance at all, and I would rather die in the attempt than lose and have to see you married off to another man. _I_ wouldn’t survive _that_. I already had to live with one woman I loved taken by another man, and I can’t do it again.”

“Then I won’t marry anyone else!” she said wildly, before she really knew what she was saying but knowing the truth of it all the same.

His tears dried immediately as he stared at her, shocked. “What?”

“If you lose, I won’t marry the winner! We’ll take Tommen and Myrcella and we’ll go far away, to Braavos or Pentos, maybe, somewhere no one will care who we are or where we come from, and we’ll marry and raise our family there--but you have to live through this! You can’t leave me alone. You are mine and I am yours. I’ll go anywhere with you.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, and when he recovered from the shock, he lunged upward, capturing her mouth for a kiss. Sansa responded gladly, her heart leaping in her chest. She shifted, trying to get closer to him, but he broke the kiss, hissing, when she straddled his legs and her knee bumped his thigh over the bandage.

She pulled back, gasping. “Oh! I’m sorry, are you all right? I didn’t--did I--”

Jaime grabbed her elbows to stop her retreat. “Don’t fuss, it’s fine. You really mean that? If I lose, you’ll run away with me?”

She nodded, searching his expression.

“But your family--your position--”

“I don’t care about my position. I’ll miss my family terribly, I won’t pretend otherwise, but I won’t stay if I can’t be with you. I love you.”

He silently mouthed the last words after she said them, his eyes wide and dark.

Then his mouth was on hers again and Sansa lost herself in the sensation of being so close to him. It wasn’t close enough--she wasn’t sure if she did it or he did it, but somehow her clothes were off and his skin was against hers, and it still wasn’t close enough. She wanted him inside of her.

He knew, somehow--he knew everything she wanted before she could even find the words to say it--or maybe it was just because he wanted it, too--and their bodies entwined so closely that she lost track of which parts were her and which were him. They were so close they breathed each other’s air--they couldn’t be any closer without melding into one. She didn’t need to worry about him now because he was right here, real and strong in her arms, his pulse racing in time with hers. She felt complete.

Later, Sansa lay awake beside Jaime, watching him sleep. The fall of his hair across his forehead, the way he mumbled incoherently from time to time, his fingers laced with hers even when he shifted--these things were precious to her. She had meant what she said even before, but now she was determined. She wanted this, exactly this, for the rest of her life. If she had to leave everything she knew behind to keep Jaime by her side, then that’s what she would do. She would follow him even to the end of the Known World.

When he woke and reached for her, she went to him with joy.

Sansa woke before he did, the pre-dawn light stirring her. She turned in his arms and propped her head on one hand, idly tracing patterns through his chest hair while she watched him sleep.

His lips curved into a smile before his eyes opened. “Good morning, my love,” he murmured.

A thrill raced up her spine and she grinned. “Good morning. You talk in your sleep.”

“Sorry,” he said, unapologetic, and leaned up to kiss her.

She hummed, pleased. “I want to wake up like this every morning.”

“So do I.” He looked past her to the window and he sighed with clear disappointment. “You should probably go, before the household wakes.”

“But I don’t want to,” she whined playfully, her grin giving her away.

To her surprise, he giggled, a sound she had never heard from him before.

“I don’t want you to, either, but we will really be in for it if someone catches you leaving.”

Sansa shook her head in disbelief. “I know. Did you just giggle?”

“No,” he said, and giggled again.

She couldn’t help but laugh. Jaime smiled and took her hand from his chest, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to her palm.

“I’m happy,” he said quietly. “I’m unaccustomed to the feeling. Apparently it makes me a bit light-headed.”

She softened, leaning down to kiss him lightly. “I’m happy, too.” She reluctantly tugged her hand free. “But now I really should go.”

He didn’t try to stop her, watching her dress with a content expression. She hesitated after she was ready to leave, returning to sit beside him for a moment and unable to resist the urge to lay her hand on his leg.

“Are you still going to joust?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

Jaime’s lips tightened. “Yes.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “Pycelle has given his approval as long as I spend the next two days resting. As grateful as I am to know that we will still be together even if I lose, I would rather not have to tear either of us away from our families and our home if I can avoid it. I have to at least try, but I promise, I won’t be taking any unnecessary risks. So,” he said with a long-suffering sigh, “I will be spending _two_ _whole days_ in bed.”

She relented with a reluctant, fond smile. He wasn’t going to break his promise to not die, and that was the best she could hope for. She would still worry, but Jaime was clearly determined, as no one had swayed him from competing no matter what happened to him.

“I wish I could stay with you and keep you company, but I have to go watch the rest of the archery contest today and tomorrow.”

He grimaced, shifting restlessly. “I wish you could stay, too. I might well go mad after two days lying in bed with nothing to do.”

“I can visit in the evenings,” she said warmly, “as long as I’m careful not to be caught. And as for the daytime--why not Tyrion’s suggestion?”

Jaime’s nose wrinkled immediately. “ _Reading_? I hate reading. It’s so dull, and I don’t have anything specific I need to read about.”

She personally enjoyed reading, but she knew that Jaime’s dislike of it was founded in the difficulty he had with it. He had confided to her once, with great embarrassment, how long it had taken him to learn to read at a functional level. He hadn’t said as much, but she had figured out that he avoided reading when he could because it still did not come easily. A part of her was sorry for him--she had quickly picked up reading as a child, and it had become a source of joy to her.

Jaime did seem to enjoy it on the rare occasions when she read aloud to him, though, as Tyrion had pointed out. It was something she looked forward to sharing together in the future, but for today, he didn’t have that option.

“It’s better than staring at the walls,” she pointed out philosophically. “And here--let’s see what Tyrion brought you.”

There was a small stack of books on the bedside table, but a quick glance at the spines was all she needed to know that these weren’t likely to interest Jaime in the slightest. She picked them up and shuffled through them anyway--a slim history of Aegon’s Conquest that was likely intended to be an introduction for children, one version of collected tales from the Long Night, the Lives of Four Kings, and a volume of selected poetry from the Reach.

Sansa smiled as an idea occurred to her. Jaime only tolerated reading when he had a purpose for doing so? Then she would give him a purpose.

“Here,” she said, pushing the book of poetry into his hands.

He didn’t throw it at her, but his distaste was plain. “Poetry? Sansa, reading is horrible enough when it’s _regular_ text….”

Her smile broadened. “I have an assignment for you.”

Jaime’s expression cleared, his curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

“Yes--I want you to find a love poem you think I’ll enjoy so I can read it tonight.”

That seemed to interest him. “A love poem you would like. I can do that,” he said, opening the book with an agreeable nod.

“Thank you. I look forward to it,” she said, and rewarded him with a kiss.

It was still early enough when she slipped out that the halls were empty. She hurried anyway, and made it back to her rooms and into bed only a few minutes before Adylla arrived to help her start her day.

 

Jaime was frowning in frustration at the book in his hands when there was a knock at the door. He glanced at the window--too early to be Sansa. It was either Pycelle come to poke him again, Podrick come to flutter around him and fuss like a mother hen, or Tyrion with yet another round of scolding.

“Come in,” he called, resigned to his fate.

It was Tyrion. “Ah, I see you got bored enough to take my advice,” he said, and took that as a sign that it was safe to enter without encountering any projectiles aimed in his direction. He dragged a chair over to the bed and climbed into it before peering at the cover. “I really only included the poetry to round out the selection, you know. I didn’t expect you to choose that over Aegon’s Conquest.”

“I wasn’t going to read any of it,” Jaime said, unable to keep the grumpy edge from his tone. “But Sansa asked me to find a poem I think she might like, so I’m trying.”

He laughed. “A love poem, I’ll wager.”

His face heated. “She did specify that, yes.” He cleared his throat. “It’s a bit odd to be _encouraged_ to make romantic gestures. With Cersei, it all had to be so secret that I couldn’t really express how I felt, and when we were young, she hated it when I wrote her a love poem.”

Tyrion smirked. “In Cersei’s defence, you’re a terrible poet. You rhymed Cersei with ‘flirtsy,’ which isn’t even a word, and compared her eyes to seaweed. And you stopped rhyming about halfway through and just started writing regular sentences so it wasn’t even really a poem anymore, just a very terrible, awkward essay about how pretty you thought she was and how much you enjoyed snuggling with her.”

His blush deepened. “I was twelve. How many people write great poetry at twelve?”

“You misspelled her name,” he pointed out dryly. “Three different ways.”

“Because you wouldn’t look it over for me before I gave it to her.”

Tyrion broke, chuckling and shaking his head. “So finding a love poem for Sansa. Any luck so far?”

He frowned at the book again. “No. At least, I don’t think so. I don’t understand most of it, but I don’t think most of these are about love. They seem to be in love with flowers, if they _are_ meant to be about love, and Sansa isn’t a flower.”

“Why not?” he asked, harmlessly enough. “Flowers are beautiful and delicate, and so is Sansa.”

“Sansa is _not delicate_ ,” Jaime said, probably more sharply than the innocent comment deserved. “She’s beautiful but she’s strong.”

Tyrion held his hands up in surrender. “All right! No flower poems--but I think you’ll have a hard time finding any odes to wolves in poetry from the Reach.”

He sighed. “I wish I’d thought to ask her what kinds of love poems she likes in particular before she left this morning. It would make it a little easier to--”

“This morning?!”

Jaime looked up to find that Tyrion had gone very pale and was staring at him with something akin to horror. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of anything to say and closed it again.

“Please tell me you mean that she visited you last night, left to sleep in her own room, and then came back to visit you this morning before I got here,” Tyrion said lowly.

He wouldn’t lie to him. He said nothing.

“Oh, Jaime, what have you done?”

He puffed up defensively. “Nothing!”

Tyrion was more serious than he’d ever seen him. “Jaime, you’ve always acted like you never aged past fifteen, but this is stupid even for you. What you and Sansa did--”

“We didn’t do anything wrong!” he said, feeling a bit choked.

It couldn’t have been wrong, because unlike any of the times he’d been with Cersei, there had been no urgency to finish before someone walked in. There’d been no lingering fear of discovery, and no squirming guilt writhing in the pit of his stomach. There had only been him and Sansa and a feeling of completeness and joy that he wanted to feel over and over again, with Sansa in his arms, for the rest of his life. How could it be wrong when it made them both so happy?

“You took the maidenhead of the princess of the realm,” Tyrion said, very slowly as though to a child, his voice as strained as the last threads of his patience. “The princess who just happens to be promised to wed the champion of the tournament being held right now, in case that had somehow slipped your mind. Sansa is only seventeen--I knew it was dangerous to leave her alone with you, as she is still young enough to be prone to give in to her emotions in such an inadvisable way, but I thought that you would have better sense than this. Jaime, you are almost forty years old-- _when_ are you planning to grow up?”

That stung. It took a great deal of effort and a few deep breaths to keep from lashing out. When he spoke, his voice was soft and carefully controlled.

“She’s not going to marry the champion of the tournament unless that champion is me.”

Tyrion’s brow wrinkled as he studied his expression. He straightened with surprise when he grasped what Jaime meant.

“You asked her to run away with you?”

Jaime shook his head, unable to hide his pleased smile. “I didn’t have to. I told her that I couldn’t bear to see her with someone else, and she said that she wouldn’t be with someone else, then, and that if I lose, we’ll take Tommen and Myrcella and go far away together.” His smile faded as he looked at Tyrion earnestly. “I was…overcome.”

He nodded, his grim expression softening a bit. “You’re still an idiot.” He paused. “I should go. I need to procure some moon tea for Sansa to drink as soon as possible--just in case. Don’t make it necessary for me to find some again tomorrow. My reputation is enough for a dose here and there to be above suspicion, but if I make a habit of getting it, the wrong people might start asking questions, wondering who my highborn mistress is.”

“I will attempt to control myself,” he said tartly.

“Good. If you can’t contain yourself for a few days, then it’s possible you have a problem.”

Tyrion left, chuckling at his own words. Jaime shook his head and turned back to trying to sort out this poetry nonsense.

 

Sansa felt a strange combination of relief and dread when the archery contest finally ended. Anguy had won, as usual when he chose to show up for an archery contest, with Theon placing second and a man from the Night’s Watch by the name of Dalbridge coming in third. Unfortunately, the Smalljon, Trystane, Loras, and Ramsay Snow had all made it to the fourth day as well, making their chances of winning her hand higher than Jaime’s. He would have to win--placing highly wouldn’t cut it if one of them won, as they had all placed highly in both of the preceding categories, and he had not.

He didn’t seem particularly perturbed about it, but that might be because her evening visits kept him in a good mood. That’s all they had been--just visits, by Tyrion’s decree. He apparently didn’t trust them, because he left them alone for a couple of hours, but then he strolled in without knocking and commanded Sansa to go to bed. He even escorted her there personally, unmoved by her attempts to pout or cajole.

“He’s right,” Jaime sighed the first night, setting aside the book of poetry they had been paging through together this time, as his attempts to find her a poem had failed. “If you stay here, you might be caught, and we need to be more careful now.”

Sansa grimaced, but couldn’t argue. Her mother had already been suspicious of her sudden high spirits that morning, and even more so when she saw Tyrion giving her the moon tea. She had been able to down it before her mother could inspect it and realise what it was, playing it off as a cure for a headache that she had asked Tyrion to get for her from Pycelle. She didn’t like lying to her parents, and the close shave had been a bit too nerve-wracking for her tastes.

“Very well, I shall go for now,” she said, pouting a bit. She leaned down and kissed him goodnight. “ _Love the strong and weak doth yoke, / And makes the ivy climb the oak, / Under whose shadows lions wild, / Soften’d by love, grow tame and mild._ ” **(1)**

Jaime smiled, delighted, despite his obvious puzzlement. “That one wasn’t in this book, was it?”

She merely hummed, noncommittal. “Good night, my brave lion.”

Tyrion grinned at Sansa when they left the room. “You’ll turn him into a reader yet. He just started flipping through the poetry book again, looking for the one you quoted.”

“He won’t find it in that one,” she said, doubtful that anything could turn Jaime into a reader. “It’s not from the Reach.”

He had just shaken his head and bade her good night when they reached her chambers. It had been much the same last night, after the archery was over, and now the jousting, the final round of the tournament, could finally begin.

Most of the competitors had seen that they had no chance and withdrawn, or else they had been too injured to go on after the swords. There was no second prize in this tournament, no consolation nor individual contest purses, so with most of them out of contention, only twenty or so remained. That was still enough to fill two days of jousting, which pleased the crowds well enough. For Sansa, it was a relief not to have to sit through hundreds of tilts on tenterhooks, waiting for something horrible to happen.

Jaime was, of course, _not_ among those who had withdrawn. Pycelle had cleared him that morning, and even Tyrion had admitted to her that Jaime did seem better.

“Not walking around on it all day for two days straight was undoubtedly helpful,” he grumbled, “but he’s still an idiot.”

Sansa smiled. “He’s not an idiot, he’s just very…determined.”

“Much like a certain red-haired princess I could name,” Tyrion said with a teasing smirk.

She rolled her eyes and chose not to rise to the bait. “I have to admit that I would prefer not to have to do anything drastic, either. I just hope he doesn’t get hurt again.”

He relented, patting her hand, and went off to do whatever it was he did before Jaime appeared on the field. Whoever managed these things had set Jaime against Ser Vardis to kick off the first day of jousting. Ser Vardis had fared extremely poorly in the archery, even worse than Jaime, and Sansa supposed that might have something to do with it.

She didn’t have time to get nervous--the two knights rode before the royal box and bowed, their armour shining and their cloaks flowing, and rode back to take up their spots. The flag dropped, they charged, and Ser Vardis went flying sideways out of the saddle while Jaime rode on, his broken lance held high in salute to the crowd’s cheers. He grinned broadly at Sansa when he rode back to bow again, as cocky and bright as though he was a freshly knighted boy again. She couldn’t help but grin back as she clapped for him.

He only faced one other opponent that day, Ser Robar Royce, later in the day. Mostly, it was Loras and the Smalljon eliminating what remained of the sellswords and lesser knights from competition. The last tilt of the day was between Ser Jaremy Mallister, who had placed highly enough in the archery to give him a dim hope in the jousting, and Ramsay Snow. Ramsay had proved himself to be a fair jouster that morning when he took on one of the last hedge knights, but luck was not with him.

It happened too fast for her to register most of it. She heard the crunch of the lance and saw Ramsay fall backwards out of the saddle, and then Ser Jaremy rode off alone.

The crowd applauded at first, but it grew quiet when Ramsay didn’t rise. His arms and legs squirmed in the dirt, worm-like.

His father and several of his attendants crossed under the fence and went to him. Sansa saw the blood immediately when they flipped him over, bubbling pink out of his mouth and nose. His face had gone white, his eyes wide and frightened. His breastplate was crushed in on one side where Ser Jaremy had struck him.

Ramsay lay choking in his father’s arms for several minutes that felt like hours, but finally, he went still and limp, his eyes turning vacant.

Tears slipped down Sansa’s cheeks and the crowd murmured, subdued.

There was no revelry that night. Most people were sympathetic to Lord Bolton--they hadn’t cared for Ramsay, but he was Lord Bolton’s only child, likely to have been legitimised in time if many more years passed without Lord Bolton marrying and producing a legitimate son. Now he had no heirs at all. The rest were simply too cowardly to disrupt the solemn atmosphere.

Sansa mourned not because she had cared for Ramsay--no, the thought of marrying him had filled her with cold dread, the likes of which she had never known before. But this tournament was being held at her command--he had died because of _her_. He had spent his last few minutes suffering. According to Pycelle, he had suffered several broken bones and a crushed penis in the fall, caused when it apparently got caught between his armour and his leg, but he had died of a punctured lung, as the ribs on one side had been crushed inward by the lance.

There was also a part of her that couldn’t stop picturing Jaime in Ramsay’s place, drowning in his own blood and dying in agony. That frightened her almost out of her wits. It was all she could do not to run to his side and cling to him during the feast.

After they were behind closed doors, she couldn’t restrain herself any longer, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face against him. She didn’t realise she was shaking until his hands came to rest on her waist, steady and warm.

He didn’t scold her or get defensive. He nuzzled against her hair and whispered in her ear.

“I’m all right. Everything is all right.”

She choked out a little sob. “If you die, I’ll never forgive you!”

Jaime chuckled warmly. “I daresay I won’t deserve forgiveness, but I assure you, I’m not going to die. Accidents like that are rare. Ramsay’s breastplate had been mended in that spot before and it gave way. My armour is brand new, and Podrick is checking over every inch of it even as we speak. I think he even intends to sleep with it, to guard it against tampering.”

She pulled back, sniffling. “Good. At least someone is thinking.”

He smiled and tenderly wiped the tears from her cheek with his thumb. “I never had anyone worry about me before. Now I’ve got two of you fussing,” he teased, but his eyes were so soft that it was obvious he was touched.

“How is your leg? And your arm?”

It had been less urgent than his leg injury, but Sansa hadn’t forgotten that he’d broken his arm in the last tournament.

“My arm is fine,” he said patiently. “I haven’t felt so much as a twinge since it healed. My leg is a bit weak, still, but much better. I’ve been resting it as much as I can, and it seems to be healing. Pycelle seems pleased, anyway.”

“What does that old goat know?” she grumbled.

Jaime laughed, caught off-guard. She followed when he led her to sit on the couch, still chuckling, but only because she was concerned about his leg, regardless of what he said.

Strangely, Jaime’s expression turned uncharacteristically shy when he had finished laughing, his ears reddening as he fiddled with something he had tucked away.

“I, um…. I wrote something for you,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

He produced a slip of paper and handed it to her. Sansa accepted it with raised brows, eyeing the wax direwolf seal curiously.

“It’s…. Tyrion looked it over for me, so the spelling should be right, at least,” Jaime said, babbling with nerves. “I know it’s not very good, but….”

He trailed off, biting his lip. Her curiosity well and truly roused, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

A smile dawned as her eyes skimmed the paper--it was a poem. Jaime had written her a sonnet.

“ _The great stretch of life seemed hopelessly long_  
_Lost and alone I wandered and I toiled_  
_The draw of my sword was my only song_  
_My dreams and my honour both hopelessly soiled_  
_In the claws of the Beast I lay crippled_  
_The rabbit ensnared does not know his fate_  
_And I like the rabbit all but shriveled_  
_Waited unknowing tomorrow’s fine state_  
_For there at the dawn the Wolf waits for me_  
_Her grace is the ocean, her smile is the sun_  
_The light of her soul on my heart set me free_  
_Now in my dreams the Wolf and I run as one_  
_And someday--I hope someday swift and soon_  
_The Wolf will be My Wolf sitting ’neath the moon_ ” **(2)**

He was right--it wasn’t good, it was actually quite terrible--but Sansa didn’t care at all. He had written her a love poem, without prompting, just to express what she meant to him. She thought she might melt.

“Oh, Jaime, I love it,” she breathed.

He brightened. “You do?”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “I do. It’s beautiful, and it was so sweet of you to write it. This is the best gift anyone has ever given me.”

She had never seen him more delighted and sentimental. He seized her hand and pressed a kiss to each knuckle, moving swiftly to press another kiss to her lips.

“It’s true,” he said softly. “It’s all true.”

She happily met him halfway for another kiss. Things might have become more heated if the door hadn’t banged open at that moment.

“Hey!” Tyrion shouted, slamming the door behind him. “You could at least have the sense to lock the door before you start pawing each other!”

Jaime let go of her hand and slid a few inches away with a guilty expression. Sansa just looked at Tyrion with a deliberately placid face.

Tyrion sighed, shaking his head with annoyance, and crossed to the wine decanter. “I shouldn’t have to babysit you two every minute to keep your tongues out of each other’s mouths. I have a life, too, you know.”

“I’m so deeply sorry that we’re cutting into your busy schedule of drinking, gambling, and visiting the brothels,” Sansa shot back, her tone a bit overly sweet.

He whipped around to glare at her. She lifted her chin, adopting her most regal look. She was the princess of the realm; she would not be scolded. Jaime glanced between them with clear concern, but he held his tongue.

Tyrion cracked first, chuckling. “I suppose that has been my usual schedule up until recently.”

She relented, her smile growing more natural. “Just us keeping you busy?” she teased.

He went a little pink, his smile turning soft and vulnerable. “No, I…I have met someone. She’s very….”

He trailed off. Jaime and Sansa exchanged an overjoyed glance.

“What’s her name?” he asked brightly. “Is she _very_ beautiful?”

“What is she like?” she asked at almost the same time.

“When can I meet her?” he added.

Tyrion tried to hide his grin to no avail. “Her name is Shae, and _I_ think she’s beautiful. She’s very smart, very…very quick. And I may never let you meet her.”

Jaime’s grin dropped immediately, replaced by a hangdog expression. “What? Why?”

“You’re far more handsome than I am,” he said flatly. “I don’t want her getting any ideas.”

He pouted a little more. “I could wear a bag on my head. Then she’d think I had greyscale and wouldn’t want to see underneath.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes.

“No offence, Tyrion, but I don’t think looks are high on her list of priorities,” she interjected quietly. “If she really likes you, then it’s because _you’re_ very smart and witty, and Jaime wouldn’t appeal to her.”

He looked oddly pleased by that, but Jaime turned his hangdog expression in her direction, his eyes large and sad.

“You don’t think I’m smart and witty?”

“Not as smart and witty as Tyrion,” she said, wincing a little internally.

She loved Jaime, and when he wished, he could be very witty, but it seemed to go hand-in-hand with the cruelty that woke when he was provoked to anger. She preferred him calm and happy and much less witty.

He pondered that for a moment. “Well, that’s certainly true,” he agreed pleasantly. “Tyrion _is_ the smartest person I know.”

Sansa shot Tyrion a relieved glance and received a smirk.

“If you want to go be with her, we’ll behave ourselves,” she said, and Jaime nodded in agreement.

“It’s a very kind offer, Sansa, but unfortunately, I don’t trust you,” Tyrion said with narrowed eyes, and climbed onto a chair, planting himself for the evening.

Jaime smiled, shrugging. They spent the remainder of the evening with her reading to him from one of the books Tyrion had brought while Jaime was confined to bed. She was absolutely certain that he had no interest in the Lives of Four Kings, but he listened with complete attention.

The morning of the last day of the tournament dawned clear but cold. Winter was coming, slowly but surely. The sun warmed the air gradually, but for the first few tilts, the nobles clutched furs in their laps and the smallfolk huddled together for warmth, and their breath rose like smoke in the air.

Sansa had heard her parents debating over whether to bring Rickon to court as well, when they went to retrieve Bran. There was already snow in the North, and while they felt that Rickon was too young to be at court, they didn’t want to risk being cut off from their youngest for the duration of a winter that the maesters agreed was likely to be the coldest and longest they had faced in centuries. She knew they would bring Rickon to court in the end, regardless of their misgivings over exposing him to court life so young.

There were no more horrific accidents. The worst of it by the end of the morning was one knight with a broken leg, courtesy of Smalljon Umber. Jaime eliminated the Smalljon in the next round after that, breaking three lances to the Smalljon’s none.

After luncheon, the air had turned warm enough for the crowd to relax, starting to buzz with excitement as the possibilities narrowed. Sansa was surprised but pleased to see many in the crowd waving cheap little Lannister banners. There were a few rough-sewn Tyrell roses and the sigil of Dorne here and there, but direwolves and lions far outnumbered them. Whether it was the minstrels and bards filling their ears with tales and songs of her and Jaime’s love, or his constant presence by her side when she went out to do good works, or her clear pleasure at his success thus far, the common folk were very much in favour of Jaime.

Still, they cheered for Loras when he came up against Theon Greyjoy. There was little love for the Iron Islands here, and Loras was a familiar figure. He rode Greyjoy down easily, breaking three lances in quick succession.

That left him to face Jaime. The crowd erupted with cheers as soon as he rode onto the field. Jaime couldn’t seem to stop grinning, soaking up the applause. She didn’t blame him a bit. It was music to her ears, too, as she well remembered how they had cheered for _her_ when he found success in Arya’s tournament, not for him. Now they shouted, “Hear Me Roar!” and waved their homespun lion banners.

As pleasing as it all was, she couldn’t help tensing when Jaime and Loras turned their horses toward each other, gripping the armrests of her chair until her fingers ached. Her pulse was pounding so hard that it took her a second to separate it from the pounding of the horses’ hooves. The second after that, the two of them met--her breath caught--there was a crunch and a clang, and Loras toppled off his horse, dragging the saddle sideways in the fall.

Jaime rode on, triumphant, tossing his broken lance to his ecstatic squire.

Robb beamed at Sansa from across the royal box. “Only two more to go,” he said encouragingly.

She nodded quickly and tried to smile, but she felt jittery and strange, like she’d been running for miles and couldn’t catch her breath.

Catelyn smiled sympathetically and took her hand in both of hers.

Jaime and Loras made courtesy, the latter looking distinctly relieved, and they cleared the field for the second-to-last pair. Ser Jaremy and Prince Trystane would face off to see which of them would face Jaime in the final, deciding match.

Prince Trystane had made it so far in the same way that her brother had done in Arya’s tournament. Nobody wanted to injure a prince, it seemed. Ser Jaremy, as far as she could tell, had got through on sheer luck and pluck. His cheerfulness about the whole thing had died with Ramsay, but he had carried on gamely anyway, and now he was only two tilts from winning the joust and making the business of sorting out an official winner of the entire tournament much more complicated.

It wasn’t his moment. Sansa couldn’t tell if Trystane got lucky or if Ser Jaremy was simply too rattled by the idea of accidentally killing the young Dornish prince as he had Ramsay. Either way, after the first tilt with neither hitting the other, Trystane unhorsed Ser Jaremy.

He rode up to the royal box afterward, pulling his helmet off and flashing his teeth at Sansa.

“I shall win you, my Princess!” he cried, sparkling and brash. “As I should have won you all those months ago!”

He galloped off without waiting for a response. He didn’t return to his tent during the break, either. He circled his sweating horse around his starting point, playing to the crowd. He was everything a dashing, handsome prince ought to be, Sansa thought. But there was no substance to him, not yet. She might have liked him if she hadn’t known Jaime. Now she was further put off by his arrogant display.

There was one amusement in it--Joffrey, who had used his “father’s” arrest and his mother’s death as his excuse for abstaining from competition, was sitting down at Trystane’s end, and his expression grew more and more sour as the ladies around him made plain their appreciation of the young prince’s appearance and high spirits.

She heard the crowd start shouting before she saw Jaime arrive back on the field. His eyes were hard on Trystane, but he calmly continued with his preparations.

The crowd was not calm. They got louder and louder, screaming until her ears rang. It didn’t help her nerves in the slightest.

“This is it!” Margaery called across the box to her, her smile bright and confident.

Robb gripped Margaery’s hand. “Come on, Ser Jaime,” he said, excitement and worry warring in his eyes.

“Come on, Ser Jaime,” Catelyn echoed in a murmur, gripping Sansa’s hand tighter.

Her father didn’t say anything loud enough for her to hear, but he was leaning forward, watching Jaime with an intense expression, his knuckles white from his tight grip on the armrests of his chair.

Arya grabbed Sansa’s other hand, practically bouncing up and down in her chair, and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Come on, Jaime!”

Jaime didn’t appear to hear her, which was unsurprising in the general din. He pulled his helmet on and took the lance from Podrick, lining his horse up for the charge.

Trystane blew her a kiss before following suit.

Sansa reminded herself to breathe as they all quieted, waiting for the flag to drop. Her and Jaime’s fates were about to be decided--in under a minute, they would have everything, or they would become fugitives together, cut off from everyone else they loved.

She had prayed to the Warrior every time he went out, but now she whispered fervent prayers to every god she had ever heard of.

The flag rose and dropped, and the servant dashed for safety. Trystane spurred his horse so hard it reared in protest before beginning to gallop. Jaime’s grey, steady as always, took off without such theatrics, his armoured head low and his mane whipping back from the crest. Jaime’s lance hung low and he leaned forward. The gap between them closed rapidly and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat.

Trystane’s lance went over Jaime’s shoulder, but only for a moment. In the next, his lance went sailing to the ground as he was pushed backward off his horse by the impact of Jaime’s lance breaking squarely against the center of his breastplate. Trystane hit the ground, and Jaime rode on, tossing aside his broken lance.

Sansa leapt to her feet and let out a very unladylike shout for joy as the air came rushing back in and made her dizzy.

That seemed to break the spell over the crowd and they erupted in cheers of their own. A group of Westermen started singing “The Rains of Castamere,” and some people started shouting “Hear Me Roar” over and over again, but most of them, nobles included, were beyond words. Trystane picked himself up off the ground before his uncle could get there. The herald stepped out to announce Jaime’s victory, but nobody heard him.

Catelyn threw her arms around Sansa, and Sansa gladly returned the embrace, weeping tears of joy. When they finally pulled away from each other, she found herself caught up in a bear hug from her father, who was actually smiling for once.

“I am happy for you, sweet girl,” he said warmly, close to her ear so she could hear him over the cheering. “Now I’ve got to quiet this lot down and award Ser Jaime his prizes.”

She pulled back from the hug with a grin so wide her cheeks hurt. She didn’t care. She was so happy, she couldn’t stop smiling or crying. She thought she might die of it, if a person could die of too much happiness.

Jaime was overjoyed, too, it seemed. When she glanced over at where he had dismounted and handed his horse and helmet off to Podrick, she saw him pick Tyrion up and spin him around, his head thrown back with laughter.

Tyrion looked distinctly less amused by this treatment, and beat at Jaime’s wrists, his lips moving in what was no doubt a command to be put down.

Arya and Robb grinned at her while their father stepped forward and tried to quiet the audience down. Margaery smiled and handed her a red rosebud in lieu of words. Sansa slipped it into her hair impulsively.

Jaime had recovered from his giddiness and stood before them, as incapable as Sansa of wiping the grin from his face. His eyes were on her even when everyone finally quieted down and her father began to speak. Sansa returned his gaze with open pleasure.

There was no need to hide it anymore.

“My sincerest congratulations, Ser Jaime,” Ned said with warmth that she’d never heard in his voice when he addressed Jaime. “As you won both the swords and the joust, it is beyond contestation that you have won this tournament.”

More cheers broke out, but Ned raised a hand and they quieted again.

“The royal armourers are at your disposal for the new suit of armour you were promised,” he said, and when he gestured to his left, three servants walked out, one of them leading two horses and the other two carrying a heavy chest. “Also as promised, two horses I chose myself, and the sum of three thousand gold dragons.”

Jaime nodded quickly, almost impatiently, and waved at Podrick, who hurried forward to intercept the horses. Two other Lannister servants accepted the chest and carried it away. Her father glanced over his shoulder at Sansa, his lips quirking up again. She bit her lip in a futile effort to stop grinning so stupidly.

“You are also released from your vows to the Kingsguard, as was agreed. You are free, Ser Jaime, to inherit lands and to take a wife--which brings us to the most valuable prize, Princess Sansa’s hand in marriage.”

Ned held his hand out and Sansa took it. He led her down the steps to stand before Jaime, holding her hand out to him. Jaime accepted it, his fingers sweaty and fumbling around hers. She could feel him shaking, but his smile never faltered and his eyes were bright.

“From this day, Ser Jaime of House Lannister and the Princess Sansa of House Stark are betrothed to be married,” her father announced formally, and stepped away, headed back up to the royal box.

The crowd broke into wild cheers again, but Sansa barely heard them over her own heart.

Jaime brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and he smiled again.

They didn’t move from that spot until her mother and Tyrion came and nudged them, urging Jaime to go to his tent and get cleaned up for the feast and Sansa to return to the Red Keep with her to do the same. Reluctantly, they parted, Jaime following Tyrion’s insistent tugs on his wrist and Sansa following her mother with rather less physical motivation.

She had no words, but fortunately, Catelyn didn’t seem to expect her to say anything. She merely returned Sansa’s smile, linking arms with her as they walked back to the Red Keep.

 

Jaime sighed for the hundredth time, still unable to stop smiling, and drew a clean shirt over his head.

“Lovestruck fool,” Tyrion said, shaking his head. “When are you going to quit sighing? You’re starting to sound like a panting dog. And you might try focusing on what you’re doing. You do know that Sansa is as good as yours now--you don’t actually have to spend any time daydreaming about her any longer. You might have been ready for the feast in half the time if you weren’t waltzing around your chambers, sighing over your lady love. She will be _at_ the feast, you know, and this time, you’ll be seated with her.”

That brought Jaime up so short that the jacket he’d been pulling on fell back off.

“I get to _sit_ with her,” he sighed dreamily.

Podrick picked up his jacket and dusted it off.

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “I’m going to slap you, Jaime, and you’re going to deserve it.”

He was undeterred, grinning as brightly as ever while Podrick helped him into the jacket this time. “I get to be _with_ her, Tyrion! No more hiding, no secrets, no pretending I don’t care while someone else tries to woo her away--I actually get to _be with_ a woman that I love, and no one else gets to touch her or tell me it’s wrong!”

That softened Tyrion--marginally. “Yes, Jaime, you do. Now finish getting dressed so you can go and be with her.”

A laugh bubbled out of him for no real reason. It was all he could do to hold still while Podrick fastened the silver clasps on his jacket and arranged his clothing neatly. Jaime had no idea where this jacket had come from, as he didn’t recall owning anything in Stark colours.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

He had _won_. Despite everything, despite Cersei’s interference, despite everyone telling him to quit, he’d won. Sansa was his, really and truly. He had kept all of his promises to her and they were going to be married, and while he knew he would have to think about other things tomorrow, for tonight that was all he cared about.

“That will have to do,” Tyrion said with clear disapproval. “You don’t want to be late to your first feast as their soon-to-be son-in-law.”

Jaime pulled a face. “Oh, that’s an unpleasant thought. Ned Stark is going to be my father-in-law,” he said, trying for disgust, but his giggle at the end gave him away.

Tyrion went around behind him and forcefully shoved him out the door. “Yes, well, you should have thought of that before you decided to fall in love with his daughter.”

“Did you see how they all cheered for me?” he asked as they made their way to the hall where the feast was being held. “Nobody has cheered for me like that since I was elevated to the Kingsguard.”

“I always cheer for you,” Tyrion said. “Doesn’t that count?”

Jaime grinned. “Of course it does.”

He finally mellowed, chuckling. “I suppose it’s not the same as the masses all cheering for you.”

“I guess it doesn’t really mean much, but it…it felt nice,” he admitted, a bit embarrassed.

“I don’t doubt that it did. Here we are.”

The hall had been transformed, with white and grey banners and draperies hung from the walls and ceiling, and white and silver cloth on every table. It looked like winter had descended on the hall, but the fires were roaring and the room was warm.

Tyrion looked down at his black and red jacket. “Now I wish _I’d_ worn Stark colours. I stick out like a sore thumb.”

He chuckled. “No more than anyone else.”

No one else had dressed to match the hall that he could see, although the Starks themselves hadn’t arrived yet. The Dornish party stuck out more than anyone in their bright orange attire. The attention they drew seemed to please them, if Oberyn and Ellaria’s display was any measure.

All eyes turned from them when the royal family arrived, though. Ned and Catelyn led them into the hall, hand in hand, smiling brighter than he’d ever seen them. Robb and Margaery followed--the lack of announcement meant nothing, as their attachment was clear. Then Sansa came through the door, and Jaime had eyes for no one else.

She looked more radiant than he’d ever seen her. Her hair was braided in a style popular in the Westerlands with gold ribbon, and wearing a long gold necklace with a ruby pendant. Her dress was gold, too, with red embroidery. She was smiling again--he wondered if she just hadn’t been able to stop, like him.

The Queen broke away from her husband to escort Sansa to Jaime’s side. Her smile was more reserved than either of theirs, but her eyes were warm.

“You look very well in our colours, Ser Jaime,” she greeted him, looking the jacket over with approval. “Grey suits you. Apparently, my dressmaker was able to procure your correct measurements. I’m very pleased with how it turned out.”

Jaime started and Sansa’s eyes widened. Her hands went to the skirt of her dress, smoothing the fabric.

“Mother, you…?”

Catelyn’s smile grew. “I prayed every day to the old gods and the new that Ser Jaime would prevail. I wanted nothing more than to see you as happy as you are right now. I know your father and I disappointed you with our doubts and fears for you--but as you see, I kept faith.”

“Oh, Mother!”

Sansa hugged her mother with wet eyes. Jaime was moved, too--he hadn’t thought they cared at all, or if they did, that they were hoping Trystane would win, or perhaps their first choice, Loras Tyrell. Anyone but him, the Kingslayer.

“I…I know it wasn’t for my sake, but thank you, Your Grace,” Jaime said quietly when they broke apart, more humble than usual.

Catelyn inclined her head, with none of her usual disdain toward him. She patted Sansa’s hand.

“Well. It looks like your father is ready.”

She left them to rejoin her husband. A place had been left for them at the right-hand table, in the centre. Tyrion was already sitting to the right of where Jaime would sit, and Arya was already seated to the left, licking her lips and staring at the servants’ entrance.

Jaime smiled and offered Sansa his arm, his heart feeling like it might sprout wings and leap straight from his chest. “Shall we?”

Sansa’s eyes shone as she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She nodded silently, her smile broadening.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and escorted her to their place. Together, side by side--not two steps behind and one step to the left. He held her chair for her and sat beside her, and when Sansa slipped her hand into his where it rested on the table, he thought someone could walk up and shoot him with a crossbow right that moment, and he would die with no regrets.

He didn’t remember much of the feast itself. The food tasted much as it always did, the wine was the same, the music was the same. People came up to them throughout the evening to offer them congratulations and promise them extravagant wedding gifts that they may or may not deliver on when the time came. He dimly recalled Arya promising to hunt down a boar for their wedding feast as her gift to them, but it could just as easily have been Robb or some noble he’d never met before, for all he knew.

No, the only things he remembered for certain the next morning were how beautiful Sansa had looked in the flickering torchlight, with her face alight with joy and her cheeks rosy from the heat and the wine, and how good it had felt to sit beside her, to openly be hers, with no secrets or pretexts. When he kissed her cheek, the only reactions were some indulgent smiles and a bit of light ribbing, because they were newly betrothed and people expected that kind of behaviour.

Jaime hadn’t felt so free and light in a long, long time. A weight had lifted from his chest and he could breathe.

A feeling which was crushed the moment Tyrion strode in just as he was finishing breakfast.

“Father’s just arrived in the city,” he said brusquely, his expression tense and dark as it always was when their father was around. “You’d best ditch the Stark jacket and put on something Lannister before he sees you. It won’t be long before he sends for you, I expect.”

Jaime looked down at his jacket. “What’s wrong with this one? The Queen had it made for me. He can’t argue with that,” he said, but even as he said it, he felt unaccountably nervous and guilty. He started peeling his clothes off without waiting for an answer.

“Father doesn’t argue,” Tyrion said, going to Jaime’s chest and starting to sort through his clothes.

Podrick took up Jaime’s discarded clothes and laid them aside quickly when Tyrion started tossing fresh garments at him.

“The trial starts tomorrow, although I expect it to be short,” he went on, tossing aside a red jacket that Jaime hated in favour of a brown one underneath. “From what I understand, Robert intends to plead guilty and ask to be sent to the Wall. Since he’s the King’s dearly beloved friend, the request will be granted, beyond all doubt. Tommen and Myrcella are expected to arrive this afternoon, and I doubt Joffrey will do his duty and keep them away from the trial. Father won’t think anything of letting them be exposed to it.”

Jaime hesitated briefly. “Sansa and I aren’t going, either. If you can help arrange it, we’ll intercept them and keep them away.”

Tyrion nodded, though his expression didn’t grow any less grim. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve arranged for them both to stay in the Tower of the Hand with Lord Arryn. He’ll be attending the trial, but given his…honourable nature, I’m certain he won’t want to leave them until _he’s_ certain they’re in good hands. At least, he’ll feel that way after talking to me.”

“Thank you, Tyrion,” he said, allowing his relief to show.

He snorted. “Don’t thank me. I can’t save you from meeting with Father.”

“But I won, and I can be his heir again, and I’m going to marry the princess. This is what he wanted. He’ll be pleased that I won, won’t he?”

“As pleased as Father ever is,” Tyrion said dourly.

Jaime shivered with dread that he couldn’t account for.

It wasn’t an hour before a servant arrived, bearing Tywin’s summons. Jaime obediently reported to the quarters Tywin had been given for his stay.

His father was already settled, it seemed, sitting behind his desk and writing letters. He didn’t look up when Jaime entered and stopped before the desk.

Jaime was used to this and settled into a comfortable stance, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. Tywin rarely acknowledged anyone immediately, despite being the one to send for them more often than not. The familiarity of it helped ease his nerves somewhat.

At last, Tywin carefully laid aside his quill and raised his eyes to Jaime. His expression didn’t so much as flicker, and Jaime unconsciously straightened at the feeling of being measured.

“Well, you’re still alive,” Tywin said curtly. “I thought perhaps your brother was pretending for my sake.”

Jaime’s brow wrinkled. He hesitated, sensing a trap, as usual, but unable to detect exactly where it lay.

“Why wouldn’t I be alive?” he asked cautiously.

His father’s nostrils flared and he steepled his fingers before his chest in a calculated gesture. “Because you were stupid enough to drink yourself to the point of insensibility and then accept another knight’s challenge.”

Shame and embarrassment flashed through him, his cheeks burning. “It wasn’t a _real_ challenge--it was a spar--”

“And in a sparring session, knights generally slice each other’s legs open, do they?” Tywin asked mildly.

His face burned hotter. “No.”

“No,” he agreed, and the silence settled thick over them.

Jaime’s skin prickled from the heat of his stare, sweat collecting at the small of his back and his armpits, adding to the discomfort. Only years of practice enabled him to keep from squirming openly--but he dropped his gaze, unable to compete with his father’s hard, unblinking eyes. He wondered how it was possible that he was forty years old, but he still felt like a misbehaving little boy in front of his father.

He gestured toward Jaime’s leg. “Will it be healed by the time of the wedding? I won’t have you embarrassing the family by collapsing halfway through the ceremony.”

Jaime opened his mouth to reply--and it hung there, with no sound coming out. He had no idea when the wedding was to be held. He’d been so focused on getting through the tournament that it hadn’t even occurred to him. His leg was healing well now, to the point that he sometimes forgot it was injured, but he couldn’t give a complete answer.

His father’s expression hardened further, until it was so cold that Jaime expected to see his own breath steaming on the air.

“You mean to tell me that you have no idea when your own wedding is going to take place?”

He never once raised his voice, but Jaime felt like his insides were shrivelling up, his mouth going dry.

“We--we were only betrothed yesterday, Father….”

“And it never occurred to you that your wife-to-be and her mother were already making plans. That while all of the entries--her potential husbands--were preparing for the tournament, they were seizing control of the wedding celebrations and ensuring it will be a display of Stark power.”

“I….”

He trailed off, unsure of what to say. That wasn’t what he and Sansa’s relationship was about. He’d had that with Cersei--the struggle for dominance, the constant awareness of who exactly was in control at any given moment. Usually Cersei, although Jaime had occasionally used his superior physical strength to assert his own form of control, just so he wasn’t Cersei’s puppet all the time.

He didn’t feel the urge to do that with Sansa, because she didn’t try to control him. It didn’t matter who had the power; it only mattered that they were together. There was no struggle or tension. He could relax and be himself, and feel safe doing it.

Tywin let out a disgusted tsk. “This could be an opportunity for us, if you can muster the spine to seize it. An alliance between the Crown and House Lannister would be an advantage--but only if _you_ establish control of your wife.”

Jaime swallowed in a vain effort to clear the bitter taste from his mouth.

“I don’t think--”

“No, you don’t,” his father said coolly. “Which is why it falls upon me to do the thinking for this family. You are my son and heir--you will do as you’re told, and you will not put the future of our house at risk over your silly romantic notions.”

He turned back to his letter-writing, and Jaime considered himself dismissed.

That conversation had gone much worse than he could ever have anticipated. He wasn’t sure what exactly his father intended for the future of House Lannister, but he had the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t like it if he knew. Sansa was technically of a higher station than Jaime, being royalty, not just highborn, and he knew that Tywin had to have some kind of plan in mind if he wanted Jaime to establish House Lannister’s dominance in the alliance their marriage would represent so soon. They weren’t even married yet, and already Tywin wanted it known who had the real power.

His head spun as he tried to imagine possibilities, but he didn’t have his father’s cunning. He would need to consult Tyrion, to see if he had any idea what Tywin was planning. Jaime’s limited skill in that area drew only the obvious conclusions--House Lannister had greater resources and manpower than House Stark, regardless of who sat on the throne, so Jaime could conceivably make requests and gain concessions that other houses could not, through the threat of the latent power of the Westerlands, if sentiment for their eldest daughter didn’t sway them. He didn’t have any desire to _use_ such power, not even to threaten it, but as he’d just been so thoroughly reminded, he wasn’t in charge of House Lannister. His father would do as he pleased, as always, without regard for how Jaime felt about it.

Somehow, though, he got the feeling that wasn’t the extent of his father’s plans. He’d seemed far too adamant. Something about the whole conversation made him feel distinctly unsettled.

So, naturally, he sought out Sansa.

His bride-to-be lit up when he entered the room, rising to greet him with a rather chaste kiss to his cheek--a move he understood when he registered the presence of her mother.

“Jaime, I’m so glad you’re here! Mother and I were just discussing some wedding details,” Sansa said brightly. “Arya has promised to hunt a boar for our feast, but there will have to be other foods. There’s the pigeon pie, of course, but pie and a bit of boar aren’t enough to make a feast. Mother suggested trout wrapped in bacon and baked apples, but I thought--are you all right?”

Jaime hesitated, trying to regulate his tone so it wouldn’t sound pathetic, like a whining child. “When is the wedding?”

Sansa blinked and exchanged a glance with her mother. “That’s another thing you and I need to discuss,” she said carefully.

“Then…then you haven’t planned it all already?” he asked, and cursed himself when it came out plaintive and thin.

She tilted her head. “Of course not, Jaime. It’s _our_ wedding--I can’t plan it without you! I was just excited, and Mother offered to talk a few of my ideas over with me, particularly about my dress. I’ll have to have a new one made, and I’d like it to be a surprise for our wedding day--if you don’t mind.”

He blew out a breath, feeling some of the tension release from his shoulders. He should never have doubted her on his father’s word--what did he know of Sansa, whom he’d met perhaps once before? Jaime knew her, and she wasn’t worried about making sure it was a “display of Stark power.” That wasn’t how Sansa thought--it was how Tywin thought.

He really needed to talk to Tyrion.

“I don’t mind at all,” he said, smiling to reassure her. “I just--my father arrived this morning, and he wanted to know when the ceremony is to be held, that’s all.”

She smiled and took his hand. “We can decide that today, so you can let your father and your other family know as soon as possible. Come and sit.”

He followed her lead. Catelyn smiled at him and waved for a servant to bring him some of the tea they were sharing.

“What are your thoughts on onions in gravy, Ser Jaime?” she asked politely.

“I have only one thought on onions in gravy, Your Grace,” he returned, “and it is this: Who thought that was a good idea?”

The two women laughed, and Jaime felt some of the darkness lifting from his mood. It was a good decision to come here first.

“I think that’s a no to the onions in gravy,” Sansa said, chuckling and shaking her head. “What about beets instead? We can’t serve meat and nothing else at our wedding feast.”

The discussion continued for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. In truth, Jaime didn’t care what they ate after they got married--he doubted he would taste any of it anyway--but being asked for his input only helped reassure him how wrong his father was. By the time they excused themselves to begin preparing for supper, they had asked him about everything from the food to the decorations to the songs that would be played. He had little to say on most of it, but he had expressly forbade the playing of “The Rains of Castamere.” They had agreed with only a puzzled glance. He didn’t feel the need to explain that he didn’t want to turn their marriage into a Lannister victory--this wasn’t another conquest, not to him. The last thing he wanted to be reminded of on their day was how Tywin viewed their marriage.

His mood had improved, but that conversation with his father still niggled at his brain. It hadn’t left him no matter how delightful a distraction Sansa was. Its persistence convinced Jaime more than ever that his instincts were trying to tell him something. He went straight to Tyrion after leaving Sansa and her mother and repeated the whole conversation to him.

Tyrion’s grim expression did nothing to reassure him that he was wrong. He watched as Tyrion paced around his chambers, idly fiddling with items on his desk, picking them up and laying them back down again while he thought.

“That wasn’t a very specific conversation,” Tyrion said at last, frowning.

“No,” Jaime agreed, rubbing his brow as though he could scrub the persistent feeling of _wrongness_ from his head. “But he kept talking about the _future_. The _future_ of our house. And he seemed so convinced that we need to act _now_. It just felt…off. Father has always been concerned about the future of our house, but it’s never felt like…like it felt today.”

Tyrion’s brows rose. “That doesn’t give me much to go on, Jaime.”

He sighed, agitated. “I know, but can you just _trust_ me? Something isn’t right.”

“You think he’s planning something?” he asked, beginning to pace again.

“He’s always planning something, isn’t he? But this time I think it has to do with me and Sansa--and I can’t let him ruin this. I can’t lose her because Father wants more power,” he said bitterly.

Tyrion huffed out a laugh. “I doubt Father’s plan, whatever it is, has anything to do with separating the two of you. He wanted the two of you together badly enough to--never mind.”

Something in his voice made Jaime sit up straight, his skin prickling.

“Badly enough to what?” he asked, unsure he wanted to know the answer.

Tyrion wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Never mind, Jaime. Let’s focus on what he might be planning _now_.”

Reluctantly, he let it pass. He wasn’t aware of Tywin interfering in the tournament, beyond forbidding any of his vassals to compete against Jaime, and whatever it was, it was over and done with now. He couldn’t change whatever his father had already done, but he could try to protect Sansa.

“Do you have any ideas of what he might be up to?” he asked, a bit helplessly, as he was drawing a blank beyond the obvious advantages his and Sansa’s marriage would bring without anyone doing a thing.

Tyrion shrugged. “There are many possibilities. If you can be patient for a few days, I can make some enquiries. I have a couple of associates who might know something, assuming he has started putting any part of his plan in motion. Since you claim to have got a sense of urgency from him, I would assume that means he’s already begun laying the groundwork for whatever he has in mind. One associate in particular might be useful.”

He shot Tyrion a peevish look. “Do I even want to know?”

He smiled. “Probably not.”

Jaime sighed and resigned himself to _being patient_. At least this time he wasn’t stuck in bed with a book.

 

Sansa was trying not to be nervous, but it was difficult when Jaime was acting so jumpy. He’d been almost depressed yesterday, though she had managed to cheer him up by the end of the day, and today he seemed to be a ball of nerves, wound as tightly as a cat in a kennel. She could only assume that the end of the tournament had reminded him of the coming trial--and his sister’s death.

They were still set against attending the trial. Instead, they were making their way to the Tower of the Hand, to take Tommen and Myrcella for the day. She hadn’t understood why Jaime wished her to accompany him until they met up after breakfast to begin the walk up to the Tower.

“I…I want to speak to the children about possibly coming to live with us at Casterly Rock,” he’d said carefully, watching her expression. “We don’t have to take them in if you don’t wish to--I have no desire to force you to raise my sister’s children when we haven’t even had our own yet--but…they have nowhere else suitable to go, and….”

_They are my children,_ were the unspoken words. Sansa smiled at this sign of caring. The need for secrecy had forced him to be distant from all three of his children, but she had no doubt that he loved all three of them deeply--even Joffrey, as vicious and horrible as he was, still had a place in Jaime’s heart, though he would never admit as much. She saw it in the way it pained him to see Joffrey act as he did; it wouldn’t have wounded him so deeply if he didn’t care.

If he cared as much about their future children, and was allowed to show it, they would be very lucky children, she thought.

She took his hand. “You’re going to be a wonderful father, Jaime,” she said warmly. “Of course I would love for them to live with us, if they wish to. Myrcella is a lovely, kind girl, and Tommen is such a sweet boy. I should hate for them to go with anyone but their--mother’s family.”

She barely caught herself from saying “father.” She knew he’d heard what she didn’t say. He squeezed her hand gratefully, and they walked on in silence. He’d only grown more nervous with each step. Now they were outside Lord Arryn’s study and he looked as though he might faint.

She laid a hand on his arm and he flinched.

“Oh,” he said, blinking at her as though he’d forgotten she was there.

Sansa smiled. “They’re going to be overjoyed. They love you, and they love Tyrion, and they talk about Casterly Rock just as warmly as they do about Storm’s End. They’re going to be so happy when you ask them.”

He bit his lip and she knew she’d hit on his fear. “What if they would prefer to stay with one of their Baratheon uncles, or their brother?”

She shook her head, raising a brow. “Renly doesn’t even remember their names, and Stannis is so dour and serious that he once made Tommen cry from fear just by asking him what he was playing with. They won’t have any interest in staying with them, even if one of them were to offer, which is highly doubtful. And Joffrey? He once threatened to kill Tommen’s cat and feed it to him in a stew, and he’s no kinder to Myrcella. Trust me, Jaime--there’s no one they would rather be with than you.”

He blew out a breath, flashing a nervous smile, and raised a hand to knock.

Lord Arryn, somber as always, opened the door. “Oh, good. They’re waiting for you. I’d best be off or I’ll be late.” He inclined his head to her on his way by. “My Princess.”

She didn’t bother responding, as he was already hurrying off down the hall. She turned back, shaking her head, and found Jaime staring at the half-open door, his eyes impossibly wide.

She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. “Come on, Jaime.”

He swallowed audibly and allowed her to lead him inside.

Tommen was on the floor, playing with Ser Pounce with a bit of string, and Myrcella was sitting at the table, wringing her hands and biting her lip, obviously deep in thought, but they both looked up when the door closed. Smiles, though a bit misty, brightened both of their faces and they rose.

“Uncle Jaime!” Tommen cried, catching his “uncle” in a hug strong enough to make Jaime grunt.

Myrcella approached with more restraint. “It’s good to see you, Uncle Jaime,” she said quietly, hugging his arm and resting her head on his shoulder, since Tommen had monopolised the rest of him.

Sansa watched with approval as Jaime relaxed, closing his eyes for a moment and resting a hand on Tommen’s head, pressing his cheek to the crown of Myrcella’s.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

Myrcella pulled away, nodding, her lips trembling, and wiped at her face. “I am happy for you and--” She flushed guiltily when she looked at Sansa. “And for you, Princess Sansa,” she added, dropping a perfect curtsy. “We were so happy for you both when we heard the news.”

She inclined her head. “Thank you, Myrcella. I’m sorry for your loss,” she said quietly.

That made the tears well in Myrcella’s eyes again, and she nodded an acknowledgment, turning away when her chin began to wobble.

Tommen finally released Jaime, sniffling and wiping at his eyes with both fists. Ser Pounce came and rubbed against his legs, and he bent down to pick the cat up, ignoring his mewl of protest.

“What will happen to us now?” he asked, his voice thick with tears. “Do we have to stay with Joffrey, without Mother and Father? Joffrey said he was going to make me eat Ser Pounce. I don’t want to eat Ser Pounce!”

Jaime hesitated briefly, glancing at Sansa. She offered him a supportive nod. He seemed to draw strength from that, squaring his shoulders as he turned back to his children.

“Actually, that’s a major part of why I wished to spend today with you,” he began carefully. “I wanted--that is, Sansa and I were hoping that…. After the wedding, Sansa and I are going to Casterly Rock, and we would like it very much if you came and lived with us. Would that be all right?”

Tommen and Myrcella both lit up, but to Sansa’s surprise, something halted their grins when they exchanged a glance. Almost as one, they turned to her, hope and anxiety warring in their faces.

“Is that truly your wish, my Princess?” Myrcella asked, her perfect politeness unable to mask her fear. “For Tommen and I to come and foster with you and Uncle Jaime at Casterly Rock?”

Tommen didn’t say anything, but he put Ser Pounce down and bit his lip, looking so like Jaime must have at twelve that it made Sansa wonder how blind everyone around them must be not to have seen what she did.

“It is,” she said, smiling to reassure them. “Jaime and I discussed it before we came to you. It’s very much what we _both_ want. And please--I’m to be your aunt soon. I’d much prefer it if you called me Sansa--or ‘Aunt’ Sansa, if you like.”

“Aunt Sansa!” Tommen cried, and flung himself at her much as he had at Jaime, before promptly bursting into tears.

Sansa’s brow wrinkled and she found herself shushing him gently, petting his hair and soothing him. Mothering Tommen came naturally, it seemed.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffled after a while, pulling away and rubbing at his eyes again.

“Why?” Sansa asked kindly, and produced a handkerchief for him.

“Mother says crying is a sign of weakness,” he said, taking the handkerchief. “She says…she _said_ I should be tough, like Joffrey.”

She shot a glance at Jaime, but he just grimaced and shook his head. He’d had little to do with raising his children; he had no idea how to respond to that, either.

“Well, with all due respect to your mother, I don’t think that’s quite right. Obviously, it’s no good to go around crying every day for no reason,” she said gently, “but you’ve had a hard time of it lately. You’ve lost your mother, and that is a good reason to cry. You have every right to cry, because you loved her and you’re going to miss her.”

“And Father,” Tommen said sadly, looking at the floor.

Sansa hesitated. “And Lord Robert. I think your tears are understandable. And to own the truth,” she added, putting a slight note of mischief in her voice, “I don’t mind any time you want to come to me and cry. I don’t think it makes you any less tough, but I won’t tell anyone. It will be our secret, I promise.”

That drew a small smile from him, and he hugged her again, this time with less force.

“I love you, Aunt Sansa,” he sighed. “I want to go with you and Uncle Jaime.”

Myrcella smiled over Tommen’s head. “So do I. When can we leave?”

That surprised a chuckle out of Jaime. Myrcella went to him for a proper hug this time. Sansa’s heart melted all over again at the expression on Jaime’s face as he held his daughter.

“Soon,” he said, his voice thick but quiet. “The wedding is in a month, and after that, the royal family will be heading to Winterfell to collect their last two princes, while the five of us go to Casterly Rock.”

Tommen lifted his head. “Five of us?”

Jaime grinned. “You didn’t think I meant to leave your Uncle Tyrion behind, did you?”

They exchanged another glance full of renewed delight. Before long, Sansa and Jaime were installed at the table with Myrcella while Tommen paced around, the two of them making plans for what to take with them and what to leave at Storm’s End. Their animated chatter soon relaxed Jaime, who sat holding her hand and watching them talk.

Sansa felt warm and content. She knew she’d made the right decision. They would build a new family, together, full of just as much love and closeness as the family she had grown up in. It didn’t matter where its members came from--these were Jaime’s children, and they loved him and he loved them. The rest of it didn’t matter at all.

They took them out to the gardens for lunch, as it was a sunny day and most people were in the throne room today. Tommen practically frolicked around Jaime, delighted with his attention, while Sansa and Myrcella talked quietly together and tended their needles when they had finished eating.

The only cause for alarm came when Jaime learned that Tommen hadn’t had any training with the sword yet in his life.

“Where are you going?” Sansa demanded, smothering a laugh at how Jaime had turned on his heel and started marching off.

He turned back with a confused expression. “To get some sparring swords, obviously.”

She shared an amused glance with Myrcella. “ _And_ padding, _and_ armour of some kind, _and_ squires? Are you planning to bring the entire training grounds here?”

That gave him pause. “Oh. Right. Perhaps Tommen and I should go there, then.”

“There aren’t likely to be any squires around, with the trial going on, and you gave Podrick the day off,” she pointed out mildly.

“Oh,” he said, his shoulders slumping.

Myrcella stifled a chuckle beside her, but all of them sobered when they heard the faint echo of applause, their eyes turning toward the throne room.

Tommen wrung his hands, his chin starting to wobble.

Sansa rose. “Why don’t we return to the Tower of the Hand? You and Tommen could draw up a training schedule together. I didn’t think to bring any parchment.”

Jaime shot her a relieved, grateful look. “Yes, I think that’s an excellent plan.”

They walked back together, Myrcella’s arm linked with hers and Tommen clinging to her other hand. It wasn’t long after their return to Lord Arryn’s sitting room that a messenger came, bearing a small roll of parchment with a trout on it. Sansa took it and exchanged a glance with Jaime before she broke the seal.

Her mother’s note was short but gentle.

“Lord Robert’s request to be sent to the Wall has been granted,” Sansa reported, handing the note to Jaime.

She could see his mixed feelings--the anger that the man who had made his sister miserable for years and then murdered her would live, the relief that his children wouldn’t have more cause to grieve--but he offered Tommen and Myrcella a smile anyway.

“It’s good,” he said with false cheer. “Your…father…is a strong fighter. He’ll be a great asset to the Night’s Watch.”

Tommen cried anyway. Sansa took over comforting him when Myrcella’s attempts failed, herding him into bed and humming lullabies until he calmed.

“Aunt Sansa?” he said in a small voice, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

She tutted and pressed another handkerchief into his hand. “Yes, sweet boy?”

“I wish Uncle Jaime was my real father,” he admitted, fiddling with the handkerchief but not using it. “He never yells like Father, and…and he never hurt Mother. He would have protected her, if he’d been there, I know he would have.”

Her breath caught in her chest and her eyes stung. She forced a smile for his sake, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

“You’re right, he would have.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “And Jaime will be as good as a father to you from now on, I promise. We’re going to be a family together.”

He smiled shyly. “And…and you’ll be like our new mother? May…may I call you Mother?”

“If you want me to be, I would be very happy to be your mother, sweet boy,” she whispered, because she didn’t trust her voice.

He sat up to hug her, clinging like a boy half his age. “Will you stay until I fall asleep, Mother?”

She rocked him a little, a lump rising in her throat. “Of course.”

After he had fallen asleep, she returned to the sitting room to find Jaime and Myrcella sitting silently, lost in their own thoughts. They looked up when she sat down, and Jaime’s eyes sharpened with alarm.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, half rising from his chair.

She waved him back to his seat. “Yes, I’m…. Tommen asked me…. I think he’s feeling very vulnerable and alone right now. His world has been turned upside down, and he’s acting much younger than he is. He needs some stability…. It will be good for him to come to Casterly Rock and have some normalcy again.” She couldn’t meet their eyes, studying her fingers instead. “He said he wished you were his real father, and…. He asked me if he could call me Mother.”

She heard Jaime’s choke and offered him a wavery smile.

“Well, he’s not wrong.”

Their heads whipped around to stare at Myrcella. Her smile was serene, with no hints of anxiety or uncertainty in her clear eyes.

“I know it can’t be acknowledged openly, but in truth, you _are_ our stepmother,” she went on. “Since you’re marrying our father.”

Jaime choked again, and he covered his mouth with one hand, his eyes wide and wet.

Sansa made to go to him, but Myrcella held up a hand to stay her and went to him herself, kneeling beside him and laying a hand on his knee. She met his gaze with that same serene smile.

“It’s all right, Father,” she said softly.

He caught her up in a fierce hug, squeezing his eyes shut. She hugged him back and Sansa saw the tension leak out of him, a contentment more complete than any she’d yet seen stealing over him. He opened his eyes and reached for her hand. Sansa took it and felt as if he opened--whatever doors or gates there had been left between them were gone, and Jaime was finally completely happy.

It made her regret what she had to say.

“I should go and check on my father,” she said quietly. “Whatever else…. I mean, he’s just sent his best friend away, and I know it must hurt him. Whatever I feel about the rest of it, I do feel sorry for my father.”

Jaime didn’t sour--his smile turned a little sad, but he nodded his understanding. Myrcella pulled back from the hug to offer her a supportive smile as well.

“Send for me if any of you need me?”

“Of course,” he said warmly, pressing a kiss to her hand. “I hope you find him well.”

She smiled and rose, dropping a kiss on his head as she left.

 

Jaime hadn’t put much stock in any gods for most of his life, but now he thanked them daily. He had no idea what he’d done to deserve such gifts. His daughter acknowledged him--privately only, of course, but it was more than he had ever hoped for. His son they had decided was too young to keep a secret, but he may as well have acknowledged him, too.

And of course, he had Sansa. He became more convinced every day that she was perfect. She loved his children, acting as a mother to Tommen and an aunt to Myrcella--and she loved him. Completely, impossibly, she loved him.

They spent three blissful days together without interruption, growing closer to his children, taking them along to do their charity work, sitting alone together with Sansa reading to him--it had quickly become one of his favourite pastimes once he realised she didn’t mind--and enjoying the last of golden autumn weather. It was officially winter, but it didn’t feel like it yet. He was even able to spend a little time acquainting Tommen with a sword, since the weather was holding so well.

It was too good to last. Cold, grey rain blew in on the fourth day after the trial--and with it came a command from Tywin.

Jaime approached Sansa with it tentatively. “My father… _requests_ our presence at his dinner table this evening.”

She raised her brows, but didn’t demand to see the note he was carefully keeping rolled in his palm.

“I see,” she said mildly. “What shall I wear, do you think? I have two dresses in Lannister colours, but one is a day dress, and the other is much too grand for a simple dinner--it was intended for feasts.”

He fidgeted, thinking of his last meeting with his father. “We don’t have to go.”

Her brows rose a little higher.

“ _You_ don’t have to go,” he corrected, grimacing. “You’re the princess--he can’t command you.”

Realisation dawned. “Ah--so it wasn’t a _request_ , then.”

Jaime sat a little harder than he meant to. “No.” He paused. “You still don’t have to go. He isn’t your lord, nor your father. He has no power to command you, and I don’t want him to think he does. I’ll make excuses for you.”

Sansa shot him a puzzled look; he looked away. He was ashamed of what his father had said about Sansa and her mother using their wedding to establish their dominance in the Stark-Lannister alliance. If it was at all within his power to keep them apart so that Tywin could not insult her and her family to her face, he would. Even if it meant being slowly scorched to death by his father’s glare over the course of the evening.

Her light touch to his shoulder as she sat beside him drew his attention back to her.

“Jaime, he’s your father,” she said, warm and earnest. “I don’t want to be the cause of a rift between you. I confess that I don’t remember him well--I’ve never been to Casterly Rock, and he was last in King’s Landing shortly after my arrival here--but I have no qualms about renewing the acquaintance. He is to be my father-in-law; we _should_ become closer acquainted. I’m not worried about who is in command--there are certainly kinder ways he could have asked to meet me again, but I don’t mind going along with it. It’s only a dinner.”

“But he _is_ worried about who’s in command,” he said unhappily. “Give in to him now and he’ll believe that he can run your life for you, as he has always done with his children.”

She tutted. “I realise you’re nervous, but I don’t think the situation is quite as dire as you imagine. I promise not to hold his grumpiness against you,” she teased.

“He’s not grumpy.”

Her brows rose again and she looked distinctly amused.

“He’s not _just_ grumpy,” he amended, rolling his eyes. “Everything is a power play to him. It isn’t ‘only a dinner’ to my father. Nothing is ever ‘only’ with him.”

Sansa finally sobered. “If you don’t want me to go, I won’t,” she said, but it was clear by the way she avoided his gaze that she was hurt by what she viewed as an exclusion.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to go, it’s that I don’t think it would be wise,” he said, struggling to make her understand. “You should stay away tonight, and then invite _him_ to dine on _your_ terms….”

She just hummed and stood, going back to the trunk of oddments she’d been sorting when he arrived.

“Tyrion will agree with me,” he said, becoming somewhat desperate. “Just ask him.”

“I can’t,” she said mildly without looking up. “He’ll be at the dinner with you.”

Jaime blew out a breath, slumping in defeat. “Sansa--fine, I think you should wear that blue gown your mother had made for you when they were trying to push you at Loras Tyrell. It brings out your eyes. Just please don’t be upset anymore.”

She let out a delighted little squeal and hugged him tightly.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” he said, sighing a bit and nuzzling into her hair. “But it seems I can’t deny you anything.”

She laughed as she pulled away, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll remember that when I want something completely outlandish that my parents would never have dreamed of allowing me. Like a dragon egg or something.”

“I’ll empty the Lannister gold mines to get it for you,” he said with false solemnity, his lips quirking up.

That drew another laugh from her. “Please don’t. Now shoo, I have to get ready for dinner.”

He chuckled and bowed before leaving, but the feeling of dread remained in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t get any better when he met Tyrion in the hallway outside of Tywin’s chambers. He was pacing, clearly agitated, but he looked relieved when he saw that Jaime was alone.

“I see you had the sense to ignore Father’s command and leave your betrothed behind,” he said, an anxious edge in his tone rendering it sharp.

Jaime grimaced. “She’ll be along soon enough.”

Tyrion shot him an irritated, disappointed look.

“What? I _tried_ to convince her not to come, but she thought I was overreacting, and then when I tried to explain it to her, she seemed to think I was just inventing a reason to keep her away and she got all hurt about it….”

“And you couldn’t stand to see her pout for a bit,” he finished icily. “Well done, Jaime. You may as well have served Sansa up to him on a platter, in nicely filleted pieces.”

He winced at the imagery as much as the rebuke. Tyrion fell into an angry silence, so he opted to keep his mouth shut while they waited.

Sansa arrived to find them both staring at the walls. Jaime offered her a weak smile, but Tyrion glared at her.

“I admit that my brother is not often terribly intelligent, but just this once, you ought to have listened to him and stayed away,” he snapped, making no attempt to soften his tone for her. “We know our father better than you, and this is one occasion that wisdom would dictate ignoring courtesy. If you knew what was good for you, you’d turn around and go back to your rooms this instant.”

She opened her mouth, but that was when the doors opened and a servant emerged, bowing.

Tyrion sighed. “Too late.”

He went around the bewildered servant, who opened and closed his mouth several times before scampering ahead of him to announce their arrival.

Jaime held out his hand and Sansa took it, her brow wrinkled.

“I didn’t think that _one dinner_ would--”

He shook his head. “Shh. Later.”

Her eyes widened a little, some nervousness finally appearing in her manner, but she followed his lead without further comment. He squeezed her hand to reassure her and they entered the lion’s den side by side.

The table was laid with finery more suitable to a royal feast than a small family dinner. The tablecloth was embroidered with gold thread, and there were so many candelabras that it was as bright as midday. There were platters and platters stacked high with food until Jaime expected to hear the table groaning from the weight.

Tywin stood beside the head of the table, his posture relaxed. His eyes were as cold as ever, and Jaime felt Sansa stiffen when his gaze absorbed them.

His mouth stretched in a horrible mockery of a smile. “Princess Sansa. Good of you to answer my summons. I see your parents raised you as expected.”

A bland enough statement, with neither praise nor censure on the surface. Jaime winced anyway, and Tyrion wore a pained expression when he looked his way.

She lifted her chin. “Lord Lannister,” she said, impeccably polite. “It was good of you to invite me.”

She left it at that, with no opening for Tywin to attack. He wished he hadn’t given in to her, so he could have spared her the whole experience--but he couldn’t help feeling proud of how quickly she brought her guard up.

Tywin inclined his head and took the seat at the head of the table, either oblivious to or pleased by Jaime’s sharp inhale and Tyrion’s protesting step forward.

Sansa was the only royal in the room--she outranked all of them. That place should have been hers, and she should have been seated first.

Tywin settled himself in and looked at them expectantly. Jaime didn’t think he was imagining a hint of smugness in his expression. He turned to Sansa, mortified.

She smiled brightly and stepped up to the middle seat on the right hand side.

“How thoughtful of you to know that I prefer to sit where I can look out the window while I eat, my lord,” she said with false sweetness. “Not many people think to arrange it, and it does seem quite rude of me to ask after the places have already been set.”

Tywin’s mouth twitched with amusement. “Anything to please my future daughter-in-law.”

Sansa went quiet again at that, taking her seat. Jaime slipped into the chair beside her, trying not to show his nervousness. Tyrion took the chair across from them and a tense silence took hold of the room.

Closer inspection of the food found fruits and berries from Dorne, and Arbor gold wine and Dornish red and sweet red wine from Volantis, and fish and meat pies and a whole roasted chicken and beef tongue--too much for the four of them to eat. He was certain his father intended it as a demonstration of Lannister wealth, but he knew that all Sansa would see was waste that could have been used to help the poor.

There were all sorts of desserts as well, but no lemon cakes, despite Sansa’s well-known fondness for them, which only added insult to injury in Jaime’s mind.

“Eat.”

Jaime jumped and frowned at his father’s increased amusement. Sansa and Tyrion were less rattled, but their expressions remained sober. The servant went around the table filling their wine glasses.

Tyrion’s quiet simmering turned to a sarcastic smile once he had a drink in his hand.

“A toast! To the Lannisters! May we always shit gold!”

He took a deep swig from his glass and started piling his plate high. Jaime reluctantly started picking pieces from the platters as well, trying to avoid the more decadent offerings. Sansa followed his lead again, her face revealing nothing of her thoughts.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lord Tywin,” she said blandly, after Jaime thought the sounds of chewing and utensils scraping plates would drive him mad.

Jaime froze mid-chew, his mind immediately conjuring Cersei--young, golden, her smile flashing in the sun.

Her head smashed in, blood and brains staining her golden hair, dripping and clumped with shards of bone, her beautiful eyes gone vacant.

Tywin’s brow flickered with muted confusion. “My loss?”

He choked on the bite in his mouth, his head whipping around to stare at his father in disbelief. His breath stilled as the first cold finger of suspicion touched him. How was there any confusion as to what she meant? How could Tywin’s mind _not_ have leapt to Cersei, as his had? How was the loss not an ache in his chest, catching him unawares in quiet moments?

Sansa’s jaw tightened. “Your only daughter, my lord?”

“Ah--yes. It was most unfortunate,” Tywin said, but he said it as though referring to rain on a day he’d meant to go hunting.

“Unfortunate,” Sansa repeated, enunciating each syllable separately. “I suppose that is one way of putting it.”

He drew himself up a little straighter, his gaze sharpening. “I’m afraid we have other, more pressing concerns at the moment.”

Tyrion snorted into his wine. “Like making sure the centrepieces at the wedding feast are red, but _not roses_ , lest someone interpret it as a _Tyrell_ affair?”

Jaime unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth with an effort. It was easier to speak with his eyes on Tyrion.

“The centrepieces are going to be white lilies and juniper berries tied with silver ribbon.”

Tyrion looked impressed and saluted him with his glass before taking another deep drink.

Tywin was considerably less impressed. “And I suppose you expect me to believe that you chose them?”

Jaime wished there was something besides wine to drink. “I don’t care about centrepieces and flowers. Sansa chose them.”

“You don’t care, and yet you remember in detail what she chose,” he said, his disdain palpable, and looked away.

Jaime shrank a bit at the feeling of dismissal. Sansa’s hand slipped under the table and she touched his knee. He spared her a smile, the light touch strengthening him until the urge to flee the room faded.

“In any case, I was referring to something of slightly larger importance than decorations,” Tywin went on, his tone remaining sharp.

“Wine?” Tyrion asked brightly, holding out his goblet for the servant to refill.

He subsided at a glance from Tywin.

“Your niece and nephew,” he said coldly, turning back to Jaime. “The eldest, the new Lord Baratheon, has turned out as depraved as his father, and I have little use for him. The younger two aren’t completely useless, but we must ensure that they are fostered with the correct families.”

“They’re coming to Casterly Rock with us,” Sansa said when he paused.

Tywin’s brows rose. “Oh, they are, are they? You decided this just now?”

Jaime couldn’t breathe. Sansa was pale, her eyes wide, but she held her head up and her hand was steady on her fork. He slipped his hand under the table and squeezed her other hand.

“Jaime and I discussed it,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “We decided that it would be best for the children. The children were pleased and agreed to come with us.”

“I don’t recall giving you leave to make decisions for House Lannister,” he snapped back.

Jaime instinctively bristled in her defence. “Sansa and I decided _together_.”

“Hold your tongue, Jaime,” Tywin said in a voice like a hammer stroke, never tearing his eyes from Sansa. “You would do well to remember your place, little princess. You belong to House Lannister now, and you will do whatever is in the best interests of this house as _I_ see fit. The only children you need to concern yourself with are your own. You will produce an heir as soon as possible, and you will raise that heir _properly_ , not like my daughter raised her ill-begotten spawn. If you fail to raise him to the standards of this house, then he will be taken from you and given to someone who will. Tommen will go to the Tarlys--Lord Randyll will put some steel in the boy. Myrcella will be found a suitable husband--perhaps the Dornish prince you so lightly cast aside in favour of my _stupid_ son.”

Jaime flinched at that. There was a long silence, and he could feel Sansa’s eyes on him.

Her hand slipped out of his.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lords, I fear I have lost my appetite,” she said coldly, and stood, sweeping out of the room before anyone could call her back.

“I told you to get control of her,” Tywin said.

He might have said more, but Jaime didn’t stay to hear it. He caught up with Sansa crossing one of the courtyards on her way back to her chambers.

“Sansa?”

He thought for a moment that she wasn’t going to stop. She did, but her eyes were hard.

“Sansa…I’m sorry--”

“I should have listened to you,” she said curtly. She paused, folding her arms. “Why didn’t you _say_ anything? It’s _your_ family, and you just sat there and let him talk about sending them away--you let him call you stupid. You let him talk to me like I was one of his servants. Why? Why did you just _sit_ there?”

Jaime swallowed, feeling strangely weak and cold before her. “Because I couldn’t think of anything to say? What could I say to stop him or change his mind? He doesn’t listen to me, even if I had been able to think of something like Tyrion does. Words have never been my strong suit--I prefer actions.”

She softened enough to uncross her arms, her face more open. “Actions?”

He reached out for her hand, encouraged when she allowed him to take it. “Taking Tommen and Myrcella with us as planned. That kind of action. And never, ever letting him take them from us--or any future children.”

A flicker of a smile crossed her face. “How do you intend to stop him?”

“I don’t know yet--but I have no intention of ever allowing anyone to part us from our children. I don’t care if I have to kill half of the population of the Seven Kingdoms to keep us together. If I must, I will,” he added, his quiet tone belying the fierce protectiveness rising in his chest.

There was a responding spark in her eyes, and she laced their fingers together.

“When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” she murmured.

He smiled. He still had no idea what he could do about his father, but as long as Sansa was beside him, he thought they would be all right.

 

Sansa stood at the top of the steps of the Sept of Baelor, looking down at Jaime. He was standing vigil beside his father’s body, his face pale and hard, his eyes unblinking.

It was four days since they all had dinner together. The two of them had gone back to their normal routine, trying not to think about Tywin and his plans, but she knew Jaime had felt the same underlying tension as she did. Their future, so full of promise and hope, had taken on a dark, fearful visage with Tywin’s arrival. She hadn’t needed to ask to see that Jaime hadn’t come up with a plan of his own yet.

And then last night, Tywin took a sudden fever. It burned through him like wildfire, despite all of Pycelle’s efforts. By morning, he was gone.

Sansa hadn’t known how to feel when Pycelle broke the news in the early hours of the morning, and she still didn’t know. Tywin’s death was a relief in many ways--but Jaime had just lost his father. She might have felt guilt and grief if he hadn’t seemed to take the news so stoically. He hadn’t said much in the intervening hours, other than stating that he would stand vigil. At lunch, he’d told Sansa to go and get something to eat and check on the children for him. It was after dinner now, as she had accepted the unspoken request to leave him alone for a while.

He didn’t appear to have noticed her return. She went down the steps to him as quietly as she could, wincing a little at the echo of her shoes on the stone.

He didn’t turn when she stopped beside him, his eyes on Tywin’s still, white face.

“It was him,” he murmured. “Wasn’t it?”

Sansa’s brow wrinkled. “I’m sorry?”

He drew a breath and his jaw twitched. “He was the one who killed Cersei.”

Her mouth fell open. She groped for words, but there was no gentle way to answer.

“I-I don’t….” She swallowed. “Tyrion thought he might have been the one who arranged it, but it was only a suspicion.”

“It was him,” he said thickly, his mouth twisting and his eyes squinting as he tried to keep his composure. “You saw his face--you heard what he said. Cersei was _murdered_ and he didn’t even care.”

“He…he cared,” Sansa offered, “in his own way. Perhaps less than….”

Jaime sneered at his father’s corpse. “Less than _securing_ the _future of our house_.”

“Less than you, I was going to say.” She stepped closer, touching his elbow. “Less than Tyrion. The two of you have a capacity for love that he doesn’t. Didn’t. It doesn’t mean…. It doesn’t mean that he didn’t care at all.”

The silence laid thick in the large chamber. She wasn’t sure if she could actually hear the shuffle of feet and murmur of voices elsewhere in the sept or if it was just her imagination.

It was a soft sound--more a breath than a real noise--that drew her gaze back to him. He had bowed his head and a few tears were trickling down the side of his nose despite his best efforts.

“Jaime,” she murmured, stepping closer and putting a tentative hand on his shoulder.

“All my life I tried to please him,” he said, choked and low. “And I never succeeded. Even winning the tournament--winning you, a princess, and becoming his heir again--even all that and he couldn’t once tell me that he was proud of me.” His face crumpled. “Why am I never enough?”

She couldn’t restrain herself any longer and pulled him away from his father’s body, into her arms. He buried his face against her neck, unresisting.

“You’re enough for Tyrion. You’re his brother and he loves you, and he’s proud of you. You’re enough for Tommen and Myrcella--they love you and they couldn’t be more proud of you.” She pressed a kiss to his ear. “And you know I love you, more than anyone, and I am proud to call you mine. You’re not just enough to me--you’re everything.”

He shuddered and his hands went around her waist. He drew in a long breath, but he said nothing. She realised suddenly that he was leaning against her and to the right, shifting his weight off of his left leg. She’d forgotten about it with everything else that was going on, but it was still healing, and here he’d spent all day standing as still as a statue beside his father’s body.

“Let someone else stand vigil tonight,” she said gently, carding her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. “Your uncle, perhaps. You need to rest.”

She braced herself for an argument, but after a short pause, he nodded, sighing and relaxing against her a little more.

Jaime was silent and moved only when she nudged him, so she took charge of having Ser Kevan sent for and a litter for the two of them. Normally, she would have walked, but she didn’t want to stress his leg further. His lack of protest when the litter arrived convinced her that she had made the correct choice.

He followed her obediently all the way back to his chambers, seeming oblivious to Podrick and Adylla joining them about halfway there. She and Adylla turned down the bed while Podrick helped him change behind the screen in the corner, and Adylla brought up some food. He turned away from it when he saw it, as she had expected he would--Jaime’s appetite sometimes vanished when he was upset.

She helped him to bed instead, even though he didn’t really need any help. He watched her while she fussed with his blankets, and he caught her hand when she moved to rise.

“Stay.”

She could almost feel Podrick and Adylla’s alarm--she didn’t need to look. She sat beside him again and shook her head sadly, stroking his hair back from his face with her free hand.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” she said, her meaning clear.

Jaime was visibly disappointed, but he followed her glance at his squire and her handmaiden. He didn’t protest beyond a sigh, his grip on her hand relaxing but not releasing.

She stayed, stroking his hair and humming one of her favourite songs, until his breathing deepened and his face went slack. He didn’t stir when she slipped her hand from his, nor when she pressed a kiss to his brow, and she closed the door carefully behind them.

“Podrick, please see that he’s not disturbed,” she said quietly. “And try to get him to eat something in the morning.”

Podrick nodded, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Yes, my Princess.”

She put a hand on his shoulder in silent thanks and then headed to a different part of the Keep, to check on a different Lannister. Adylla followed, her confusion palpable, but she asked no questions.

Tyrion raised his glass when Sansa entered without knocking, a bleary smile on his face.

“Ah, there she is! Sansa of House Stark, Princess of the Realm, Lady of the Whores’ Orphans, Protector of the Destitute Prostitutes, Holder of My Brother’s Leash! Welcome!”

He bowed deeply, slopping wine on the floor. Adylla hurried forward to clean it up, oblivious to Tyrion’s leer at her backside.

Sansa scowled. “You’re drunk.”

He smiled smugly, raising his glass again and spilling more wine. “ _That_ I am! Would you care to join me? I had them bring up _all_ the wine!”

That was an exaggeration, as there was a great deal of wine on the table, but hardly all of the wine in the Red Keep.

“I would not,” she said icily. “I would care to see you to bed, my lord, as I fear for your health should you continue. As it is, you will regret the indulgence come morning.”

He pulled a mocking face. “So formal! Why are you Starks always so serious? Winter is Coming! Mind the snow! Hoard your food! Don’t drink so much!”

She slammed her hand down on top of the decanter when he made to lift it and the amusement drained from his face.

“Adylla, wait for me outside the door,” she said without taking her eyes off of Tyrion. “I shall be out as soon as I have convinced Lord Tyrion of the wisdom of seeking his bed.”

“Yes, my Princess.”

There was a rustle of cloth and then the door shut behind her.

Tyrion smiled, but it was weak. “Are you about to scold me, Sansa? Tommen may have asked to call you Mother, but I don’t recall--”

“It was you,” she said quietly, softening her demeanour as she released the wine decanter and straightened. “Wasn’t it? It wasn’t any fever at all.”

He looked away, but not before she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes and the tightening of his jaw.

“I’m not angry,” she went on, sitting across from him. “And I won’t tell Jaime. I just want to know why. Was he making plans to hurt you? I thought you said you’d be safe until after Jaime and I had a son.”

His nostrils flared. “It wasn’t me.” He snorted, slumping against the back of his chair. “Or wasn’t _just_ me he was planning to hurt, I should say. He was ready to have me disposed of any time after you and Jaime had a son. He didn’t need an elaborate plan--nobody would question a dwarf’s death. No one would care.”

“Jaime and I would,” she said sharply.

He smiled tightly but still wouldn’t meet her eyes. “No, my father was hatching much bigger plans. Jaime told me that Father seemed _urgent_ when he first arrived in King’s Landing, but he couldn’t put his finger on what exactly about the conversation bothered him so much. I have connections that Jaime doesn’t have--not as thorough as the connections my father had, maybe, but I was able to find out enough to know that he needed to be removed, the sooner the better.”

Her brow wrinkled and her lips parted, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Father was planning--” He paused, pressing his lips together for a moment. “There will likely be another tournament, in a few months’ time, while the weather is still good enough, to celebrate the last two Stark princes coming to court. Your eldest brother, Robb, will be more than willing and able to compete this time, since one of the prizes isn’t his own sister’s hand…. My father gave instructions to the Cleganes that one of them was to--dispose of him. A simple tournament accident, tragic but above suspicion. The Hound was more than a bit put out and willingly let it slip when pressed by one of my associates, but his brother, _Ser Gregor_ , would be more than happy for an excuse to murder someone for no reason.”

“But what good would that do?” she burst out, bewildered. “Why would anyone want to kill Robb?”

Tyrion smiled. “Sweet, innocent Sansa,” he sing-songed, then sighed and turned morose again. “Robb is the heir to the Iron Throne. Unless he happens to be dead, of course. Then that title passes to your little brother, Bran, as none of your brothers have children of their own yet. Except that my father was in the process of arranging to place someone in Bran’s inner circle who would eventually go hunting with the young prince, where yet another tragic accident would take place. This would turn the title of heir over to Rickon, you’re thinking--but that’s where you’re wrong, because my father knows that Rickon is still young enough that it wouldn’t seem terribly suspicious for him to die of some fever or other after his arrival in King’s Landing. His youth, the stress of travel, exposure to the new and unfamiliar…. It would also seem tragic, but not suspicious enough to point fingers. Everyone knows that Stark men do not do well in the South….”

Sansa clenched her fingers in impotent fury as it clicked into place. “And after all my brothers are dead, _I_ am the heir to the Iron Throne. Your father didn’t care when my father died because he knew that I and my children would outlive him, and with my brothers out of the way, _my_ son--a _Lannister_ \--would one day sit on the Iron Throne.”

He lifted his glass in salute once more, downing the contents in a single swallow. “That was the master plan. Of course, with my father out of the way, your family is safe. I don’t plan on allowing the Mountain to live, and the Hound will only do what Jaime tells him to do, now that he’s Lord of Casterly Rock. We’ll take him back to the Rock with us and not give him the option of returning to King’s Landing for the next tournament, and that will be that. One of my associates already undid the plan of infiltrating Bran’s inner circle quite easily, as that was a more long-term plan, not fully hatched, and the poison that would have made your brother Rickon seem to die of fever was already…repurposed.”

The “fever” that had burned through Tywin so fast, she realised. Some of her fury cooled at the thought that he had been killed by the very weapon he’d sought to use against her youngest sibling.

“Pycelle?” she guessed uncertainly--the old maester had seemed genuinely distraught at being unable to save his benefactor, but she couldn’t think of anyone else.

Tyrion’s face flickered. “No one.”

She paled and said nothing when he refilled his glass. She didn’t want to know how one went about hiring a Faceless Man.

His smile was hollow. “You should follow your own advice--go to bed, Sansa. I’m going to drink until I pass out. I’ll be hungover in the morning, but I’ll be better the day after.”

She nodded, frowning, and stood to leave, only to drop back into the chair again, hesitating.

“What?” he asked warily.

She waited until he met her eyes. “Thank you, Tyrion, for saving my family. I’ll never forget it.”

He smiled again, more genuine this time. “You saved mine first--the only family that matters, anyway. Jaime hasn’t been…. Jaime wasn’t himself, not for a long time after the Mad King--until you came along. He’s still an idiot, but he’s…he’s happy. I haven’t seen him happy in a long time. Since he was fourteen and went off to become a squire, I think. All I did was repay the favour.”

She shook her head, but opted not to argue. “Good night, Tyrion, my dear brother.”

He blushed and had no smart remarks when she kissed his cheek before leaving. “Good night, sweet sister.”

She rejoined Adylla, shaking her head once at the silent inquiry, and they returned to her chambers to ready her for bed.

 

Jaime made an effort to be more cheerful over the next week, trying to focus on the joy of spending time with his children and planning the wedding. It was difficult to force a smile, sometimes, the realisations he’d had about his family weighing heavily on him. He had always known that the rest of his family was cunning and ambitious, far more so than he was, but he’d never realised how far that ambition extended.

He loved his family and would never dream of hurting a single member in order to further his own goals--not even the fat cousin whose name he couldn’t remember. Now, if one of them was between him and his immediate family or tried to hurt them, that might be a different matter, but as things stood, he wanted them all safe and happy. His immediate family--his brother, his sister, his father, they were so precious to him that even _accidentally_ hurting them made him ache with guilt, and he’d been fiercely protective of all of them. _Us against the world_ , that was the way it had always been. Cersei’s betrayal, her failed plot to keep him out of the tournament by having him wounded and drugged, that had hurt badly enough, but to find that his own father was capable of killing a member of the family--his own _daughter_ \--simply for getting in the way of his goals was more than he could take. It wasn’t _us against the world_ anymore, it was just him, alone against the world. It was crushing and terrifying.

However, he found that feeling dissipating on its own after a few days. He _wasn’t_ alone, not really--it was still _us against the world_ , it was just a different _us_. He still had Tyrion, after his brother emerged from his drunken haze, a bit more solemn, perhaps, but as loyal as ever. He had Tommen and Myrcella, both of whom were gentle and sympathetic toward him, despite having no real affection for their distant grandfather.

And he had Sansa. The thought made him smile. She had appointed herself his emotional guardian since Tywin died, fiercely protecting him from anything she deemed too stressful. She had even escorted his uncle Kevan out of his chambers when he came to discuss some Westerlands business. Jaime was never in the mood for boring paperwork and mundane decisions, but to discuss such things only two days after his father’s passing felt wrong, somehow. It stung in ways he didn’t quite understand, and apparently he hadn’t hidden his discomfort very well.

“There’s also the matter of the harvest--”

“I’m certain your brother left that already well in hand,” Sansa interrupted his uncle. “Lord Tywin was always so meticulous in planning, his attention to detail unparalleled. I’m sure he had already begun preparations for winter.”

Kevan shot Jaime a disgruntled look at the interruption, his brows flickering in silent question-- _aren’t you going to do something?_ Jaime just looked back him placidly. Sansa’s smile was perfect, polite and serene, as always, but he saw the steel in her eyes.

“Well, yes, but we still ought to….”

Kevan trailed off when Sansa’s smile widened.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Ser Kevan. I agree that Jaime and I should, of course, acquaint ourselves with such matters soon--but I see no reason why it can’t wait a week.” She softened her voice and her face into an expression of such gentle sorrow that Jaime was very nearly fooled right along with his uncle. “It would only be proper, in respect to your brother’s passing, to trust that he left things in good order.”

Kevan fumbled the papers he’d brought and stood slowly. “Er…well, yes, I suppose….”

Her smile returned and she was at his elbow in an instant, nudging him toward the door. “It’s settled, then. Next week!”

And she closed the door in his befuddled face.

Jaime didn’t have to force a smile this time--he chuckled freely, feeling lighter for a moment, and Sansa grinned back, cheeky and bright.

The truth was that he would never want to deal with those aspects of ruling, and she seemed to have picked up on that, too. She and Tyrion had met with Kevan several times since that day, and he’d seen both of them with documents that looked official and important. He didn’t care. The less paperwork he had to do, the better. He’d deal with manning and supplying the armies and training the soldiers and seeing to the defences of Casterly Rock, Lannisport, and the Westerlands--that was his comfort zone, it was what he was good at. He knew it would have driven his father mad to have Tyrion and a Stark running things, with Jaime just a figurehead, but at this point, that was a bonus, as far as he was concerned.

He felt much better by the end of the week, bolstered by Sansa’s steady, faithful presence and her efforts to cheer him and comfort him. His mind turned to the wedding once again--specifically, what he could give her as a gift.

“Don’t other people usually give the couple gifts?” Tyrion asked in a bored tone. “Why do you need to get her a gift?”

They were standing in the throne room, waiting for the day’s session to start, so his boredom was understandable. Jaime would have been bored, too, if he hadn’t been preoccupied with thinking about Sansa--well, and watching her. She was standing in the gallery with her sister, occasionally smiling at him but mostly listening to whatever Arya was talking about. He could swear Sansa grew more beautiful every day.

“Yes, they do, and I know I don’t have to--but I want to,” Jaime said warmly. “She’s been my rock through all of this--and before, with Cersei. She could have told me to stop moping, like you did, or she could have been jealous, but she was just there for me. I want to give her something special, to show how much I appreciate her.”

“Now, when you say it like that, I just sound rude, but you’re really _very_ annoying when you mope,” he replied petulantly.

“Not to Sansa. Don’t you think that deserves a token of gratitude?”

“I think _I_ deserve a token of gratitude for not knocking you out with a rock to the head every time I’ve seen you for the past few months.”

Jaime chuckled, but then Ned came into the hall, and he fell silent with the rest of the assembly.

Most of the morning’s business was dull and held little interest for him. The only thing that held his attention was the oddity of standing in the crowd of nobles, rather than in front of the throne facing the crowd. He felt a little naked without his armour. He hadn’t shed the habit of always carrying his sword, despite Tyrion’s scolding and sighs. He didn’t think he ever would. He was a warrior, a knight, first and foremost, and he couldn’t part with his sword. He would probably even wear it at the wedding--he knew Sansa wouldn’t mind, even if everyone else did.

“Before I proceed to the final order of business, the Prince has an announcement to make,” Ned said after what seemed like years, looking ever so slightly less grim.

Robb stepped forward, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes on one person in particular. Jaime couldn’t see her to confirm, but he was certain it was Margaery Tyrell, at the front of the assembly. He might have scoffed if he wasn’t sure that he looked ten times as foolish and sentimental when he looked at Sansa.

“I stand before you the happiest of men,” Robb said, loud enough to carry but soft with contentment. “I am pleased to inform you--and I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear--that I have made an offer of marriage to Lady Margaery Tyrell, and she has accepted me. We are to be wed on the night of the first snow to reach the God’s Eye.”

The gathered nobles cheered with equal parts duty and happiness--not for Robb’s own sake, in most cases, but happiness that the heir to the Iron Throne would, in all probability, have an heir of his own sometime in the near future. No one wanted a succession crisis, and while such a possibility was extremely remote, it was still a comfort to know that the future would soon be as secure as the present.

Sansa and Arya had likely already known the news, but they were clapping enthusiastically anyway. There were even tears in Sansa’s eyes, her expression tender. He glanced down at Tyrion and found that he looked a little happier, clapping with a milder expression than he’d worn in days. Jaime had no special feeling for Robb or Margaery, but he enjoyed seeing his loved ones happy, and that was reason enough for his applause to be sincere, too.

Robb returned to his seat and the applause died down.

“The last order of business for the day is this,” Ned said when expectant silence fell. “Owing to Ser Meryn’s disappearance, and Ser Jaime’s honourable release, the Kingsguard is short two members. After careful consideration, I have decided that no appointments shall be made until after my family and I return from Winterfell. The last tournament before Winter will take place at that time, and I will be looking not only at a competitor’s performance, but also at his conduct. I will appoint the two who are not only warriors of valour, but also men of good character, who act and speak with honour.”

It was strange to listen to the issue of his replacement being discussed. It almost felt pointed, as though Ned was saying that Jaime _wasn’t_ those things and he wanted his replacement to be better than that. A part of him bristled and he had to bite back on the urge to tell the king good luck finding anyone better than him.

“All right, Jaime?” Tyrion asked, sounding amused. “I can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears. You may want to curb whatever impulse you’re feeling for the sake of peace with your future in-laws.”

In-laws--Ned was his king, but he was also his father-in-law, or as good as. In a fortnight, he would be, because Sansa would be his wife.

His irritation vanished at the thought and his gaze turned to Sansa. She’d been watching him with a tentative expression, but she lit up when their eyes met and she saw his contented smile. He made a beeline for her as soon as the session was ended.

Arya rolled her eyes when they clasped hands. “Here we go again. I think I’ll find somewhere else to be, if you’re going to get all mushy again.”

Sansa chuckled. “Probably wise.”

The younger princess snorted and stomped off, but he knew her well enough by now to see that her annoyance was largely for show--her way of teasing her sister.

“Shall we go for a walk?” he suggested. “It’s not as warm as it has been, but the sun is out.”

She accepted warmly, and soon they were strolling through the gardens, her hand tucked in his arm. He still hadn’t got over the thrill of this--walking publicly as a couple, side by side, with no more than indulgent smiles and kind greetings sent their way.

“How is the Westerlands business proceeding?” he asked, more from politeness than actual interest. “I hope my uncle isn’t giving you and Tyrion much trouble. He’s usually rather pleasant, but sometimes he tries to emulate my father….”

Sansa was staring at him with a stricken expression. “I…. We were only trying to help while you…. I hope you’re not offended by my interference--”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Offended? Hardly! I couldn’t be more delighted. There’s very little that I find more dull than the idea of sitting in a dusty, dark solar, trying to balance the amount of grain in our stores against the number of peasants and the expected length of the coming winter.” The very thought alone made him shudder. “The more of that you and Tyrion deal with, the less I have to bother. My only concern is that _you_ don’t get too bored and overworked. I’d rather _I_ suffer than you, particularly since it’s supposed to be my duty, not yours.”

She had relaxed as he spoke, even shaking her head at his dramatic shudder with clear amusement.

“I’ve spent my life preparing to manage a household as a great lady. Helping to manage the rest of the region is not much of a stretch for me. In truth, I enjoy it. There’s comfort in mundanities. If I or Tyrion requires your assistance, we’ll be sure to let you know.”

He relaxed in turn, the very tiny bit of guilt at his shirking of his duties melting away. “Good.”

Her look turned amused again. “And it isn’t dark in the solar where we work. How would we read the parchments without light?”

He chuckled. “A fair point. Perhaps my imagination makes it seem a bit darker than would be practical. I imagine black shadows fought off by a lone, feeble candle, its light reflecting back from the eyes of thousands of spiders, weaving their cobwebs in the dust,” he added, his tone low and theatrical as though he was telling a ghost story, his grin mischievous.

She laughed, giving his arm a playful shove. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only with you,” he said, and whatever she saw in his face made her flush with pleasure.

They were silent for a time, and he noticed Sansa biting her lip when they reached one of the overlooks with a view of the bay.

“It must have been odd for you,” she said abruptly before he could ask. “To listen as my father talked about replacing you.” She turned to him, her eyes uncertain. “Do you regret leaving the Kingsguard?”

He cursed himself for showing his irritation earlier. He’d never meant to make her doubt him. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb trailing along her cheek.

“I have no regrets about leaving the Kingsguard,” he assured her gently. “I have accumulated many regrets in my lifetime, but that isn’t one of them. I can’t even honestly say that I regret _joining_ the Kingsguard in the first place, though it was never as I hoped it would be, because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been here to stop the Mad King, and I never would have come to know and love you.”

Her brows drew together despite her smile. “The Mad King….” She frowned and put her hand on his chest, apparently just for reassurance, as she made no move to push him away. “He hurt you deeply, didn’t he?”

Jaime’s defences asserted themselves and his smile was sarcastic. “No, he never laid a hand on me. If he had, I wouldn’t be here talking to you--I would be another name on his list of victims,” he said lightly, but he winced internally at the edge in his tone, struggling to remind himself that this was Sansa. There was no need for defensive behaviour with her, because she wasn’t going to start slinging accusations--she _believed_ in him. He clung to the memory to steady himself and keep calm. Lashing out would only hurt her, and wasn’t necessary.

Her frown deepened. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about--or perhaps it wasn’t Aerys--or not _just_ him, anyway. He was mad and made you stand by and watch while he did terrible things, killed people…but no one even wondered about it afterwards. No one asked you why. They just called you Kingslayer and Oathbreaker and made you go on guarding the next king. You must have felt…very alone.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting her to say, but that was not it. His natural defences of sarcasm and going on the attack felt like they’d been stripped off, like hair with hot wax, leaving him naked. He trembled, though he tried to still himself, and knew she felt it.

“Yes,” he said curtly, and closed his mouth.

She looked at him with terrible sadness, but no pity. “I’m sorry for my family’s part in it.”

He said nothing. He felt strange, like the top of his throat was a knot at the top of an overly full water skin, and it might burst with the slightest pressure. His chest was tight and her light touch felt heavy.

“If you ever want to talk about it….”

She trailed off, leaving the offer open, and turned to resume walking.

He caught her wrist in a spasmodic motion that felt like someone else was moving his hand. He was certain he must have hurt her, but her expression held only concern when she turned back to face him. He swallowed hard against that tight, bursting feeling in his throat and something gave.

“I…. I couldn’t tell…anyone. Your father…he’d already made up his mind about me, and then he was king and everyone agreed with him,” he said, choked and halting. “Even my own family…even Tyrion never asked, they all just assumed…. No one…no one would have believed me. Until you…. You believed in me without asking, without knowing, and I…I want you to know that you were right. I didn’t kill him because my father was sacking the city, or because I wanted to be on the winning side, or….”

She cupped his cheek, drew him closer, her love and sympathy a buffer against everything else.

“Tell me,” she murmured. “I’ll believe you. I’ll always believe in you.”

“He’d…he’d ordered the placing of wildfire under the city,” he said with difficulty, the words coming out stilted as memory played before his eyes. “Under the Red Keep and the Sept of Baelor, under Flea Bottom and all the rest…. When my father and his army entered the city…and blood ran in the streets…the King ignored my pleas to surrender and he turned to his pyromancer instead. ‘Burn them all,’ he said, over and over. ‘Burn them all….’ I still hear him in my dreams, laughing while they screamed--the Starks, the Queen…. And saying it over and over and over…. Burn them all, burn them all….”

His voice cracked at the end, and Sansa gathered him close to her, pressing their foreheads together and stroking the back of his head and hugging him tight. She had gone pale while he talked and he could feel her shaking, too, at the enormity of what he had prevented, but her voice was steady.

“Shh,” she soothed him. “Shh. It’s over. He’s dead, and you saved _everyone_ in this city.”

His breath hitched and his eyes closed as he accepted her comfort, his trembling fading away. “Not everyone--the people killed by my father’s army, or Elia Martell and her children, or--”

“Everyone you _could_ save,” she said, persistent but gentle. “You couldn’t be everywhere at once, and you were trying to convince him to surrender peacefully. You were honourable and good and just, and you defended the innocent and the weak. You accepted everyone’s condemnation when they should have been raising you up as a hero--that’s what you are. Everyone in King’s Landing would have died if it wasn’t for you, the innocent right alongside the guilty.” She shifted, pulling him closer, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I will always believe in you, Jaime--my hero, my knight, my love.”

He lifted his head from where it rested against her neck and her lips met his. He kissed her back fiercely. He felt empty and full at the same time--cold and hot, with tears leaking out of his eyes while his body lit with desire. She believed him, and she thought him a hero, and nothing anyone else thought mattered at all.

“Ahem. I think that’s a bit inappropriate for public, don’t--”

They broke away and Robb’s mouth snapped shut, his face paling, when they looked at him. Jaime wiped his face self-consciously, aware that he couldn’t hide his reddened eyes. He hadn’t realised Sansa was weeping as well, but there were tears on her cheeks and she made no move to conceal them.

Robb looked between them silently for a moment. “Is everything all right?”

Sansa nodded when Jaime just looked away. “Yes, everything is fine. We were just talking about the past. We got a bit emotional, but we’ll attempt to recall our surroundings next time.”

“That would be advisable,” he said carefully, but then he smiled. “Our mother would like to see you. Something about your dress.”

She froze, looking at Jaime with a guilty expression.

He smiled. “Go on. I’ll be fine. I want to go and spend some time with Tommen and Myrcella anyway.”

Seeing them regularly, without any need for an excuse now that he was “fostering” them, was as much a balm to him as being able to openly express his affection for Sansa. It also had the bonus of keeping Joffrey away from them--Jaime had no idea why, and he didn’t care to ask, but his eldest son had been assiduously avoiding him since their arrival in King’s Landing. He redoubled his efforts to avoid Jaime after the trial, stopping just short of turning and running in the opposite direction if he saw Jaime approaching.

She kissed his cheek but still seemed reluctant. “All right…. I’ll find you after my mother is finished with me.”

“Good,” he said simply.

She squeezed his hand and gave him another kiss and still lingered until Robb cleared his throat. Jaime wished for better timing--although, if he was being honest, he never wanted her to leave. Still, the thought of his children was almost as comforting and he went along to their quarters as he’d said he was going to.

He was almost used to Tommen’s overly enthusiastic hugs, he thought.

“Good afternoon, Uncle,” Myrcella said, kissing his cheek in daughterly fashion.

Jaime sighed and murmured a response, letting himself relax.

 

Sansa was barely listening as her mother debated the various options for trim on her dress. She had originally chosen white fur, but for one reason or another, the dressmaker was finding it difficult to make it work with the two-tone damask she’d fallen in love with for the body of the gown.

It was important to her and she knew she should be paying better attention, lest she end up with something she hated, but she was finding it difficult to focus on anything but Jaime’s confession to her in the gardens.

How could no one have been the least bit curious? Even her own father had leapt to the easiest conclusion and never questioned it--that Jaime had seen the writing on the wall before his father arrived and sacked the city, and switched to the winning side after his father was there to protect him. Not once had anyone thought there might be more to it. Sansa didn’t consider herself smart, but it seemed to her that when you had a dishonourable, mad king on one hand, and a young knight who had behaved honourably up until the moment he broke his vow, it ought to bear more investigation. Jaime had stood by for months while Aerys tortured his sister-wife and burned people alive, and yet when he killed the madman before he could take thousands of people with him, he was condemned for it, despite the general agreement that Aerys was evil and mad and needed to be killed.

No wonder he’d clung to Cersei as he had, for so long, despite her marriage. The rest of the world already called him a man without honour and she was almost the only one, besides Tyrion, who showed him a modicum of affection. Or she had been, until Sansa came to court and showed him the respect he deserved.

It wasn’t fair, she thought, and the petulance that might have infused it even a year ago was absent, replaced with moral outrage and protectiveness of the man she loved. It wasn’t fair for Jaime to have to live with being constantly shamed and looked down on for what she considered to be his finest act, particularly now that she knew the whole story. If only she could prove it to everyone else--surely they would see him the way she did, as a true knight.

“Sansa, are you listening?”

She blushed at her mother’s exasperated tone. “No, I’m sorry, Mother. It’s just that I was thinking about…. Mother, if someone was going to blow up the city, where would they hide the wildfire?”

Catelyn’s mouth dropped open, but she was too well-trained in decorum to gape for more than a second. “Sansa, what in the name of the Seven would possess you to think about such a thing?”

“It was just something someone said to me today,” she said, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “Where would they put it so they could blow up the city with no one the wiser until it happened?”

“If this is the sort of talk Ser Jaime is going to put into your head--”

“Mother, please. It’s important,” she said firmly, setting her jaw.

She searched Sansa’s face for a long time before she answered. “I wouldn’t know--but your father might.”

Sansa stood. “Let’s go see him, then. He’s with the small council?”

She turned on her heel and started off, ignoring her mother’s attempt to call after her. She had seized on this idea when her mother pulled her from her thoughts, and she was going to see it through. If the Mad King had placed wildfire under the Red Keep and the Sept of Baelor, if Jaime had told no one, if no one had found the caches and removed them, then it stood to reason that the wildfire was still there. The thought made her shudder a little and reinforced her determination to find out. Everyone in King’s Landing remained in danger if there was still wildfire beneath it.

The small council, including her father, was less than impressed by her interruption, and even more so after she asked her question. Ser Barristan was the only one who seemed to consider the possibility--she could see his mind turning it over in the narrowing of his eyes. Robb was frowning at her with faint disapproval, but no other discernible feeling. Lord Arryn scoffed openly, but the rest of them looked skeptical, too.

“I think if there was wildfire under the city, we would have noticed by now,” Lord Varys said with a somewhat condescending smile. “Being turned to ash by an enormous fireball is rather hard to miss.”

Sansa’s spine stiffened and she looked at them all coldly.

“Sansa, what brings you to ask such a question?” her father asked, seeing her seriousness.

That was what she was afraid of--that she would have to break Jaime’s confidence--but she couldn’t lie to her father. She relayed what Jaime had told her and watched as their skepticism reached new heights.

“Of course the--Ser Jaime would want you to think well of him,” Lord Arryn said, his air distinctly annoyed at what he obviously considered a frivolous interruption. “You’re to be married, after all.”

“But I _already_ think well of him,” Sansa insisted, her voice rising with her frustration. “What would he have to gain by inventing such a story? You’re the small council--you are charged with the protection of the realm, are you not? Even if he was lying--which I assure you he was _not_ \--then isn’t it your duty to investigate even the _possibility_ that there may be such a dangerous substance lying in large amounts beneath the capital?”

Ser Barristan spoke then, evidently finished thinking. “Princess Sansa is correct. Whether or not there is any truth to the matter, we would be remiss in failing to be sure. If there is, indeed, wildfire under the city, then all it would take is one spark, one fallen stone, one drip, and all of King’s Landing would be consumed.”

That was disturbing enough that the skepticism faded. It didn’t matter whether the rest of them agreed, though, because Ned stood, nodding.

“Let us all go below. There are many different places beneath the Keep where such a cache may be hidden, and the sooner we start looking, the sooner we can rule out the possibility.”

Sansa smiled with relief, and she followed her father and brother out of the chamber.

“Ser Barristan, gather the rest of the Kingsguard and meet us in the lower storeroom,” Ned ordered.

Ser Barristan bowed and left quickly, his white cloak billowing in his wake.

“Robb, we need twenty of our best men to aid the search--pull Jory off of whatever he’s doing, I want him with us.”

Robb was off almost before their father finished speaking.

Ned turned to Sansa, squeezing her shoulder. “Why don’t you go along back to your mother?” he said kindly. “This is no kind of work for a lady, sweet girl.”

She smiled but shook her head. “I want to help. When we find the wildfire, I want to be there.”

He sighed, relenting.

He had more reason to be disgruntled when the Kingsguard arrived, because Arya came with them, trailing after Ser Arys like an eager pup.

“Not you, too,” Ned said, his lips twitching, when she spotted them and skipped over.

“I love exploring under the Red Keep,” she said, her eyes shining with excitement. “Perhaps I can help. I know lots of passageways no one else knows.”

He looked between them with mingled annoyance and amusement. “Very well--as long as you two stick together and don’t get in the way. Keep your torch away from any barrels you come across and don’t try to open them yourself, just in case.”

They both agreed. Sansa half wished Jaime was along, as the descent below the dungeons soon began to feel creepy and dangerous, although she was also glad that he wasn’t here to see the men scoffing and hear them muttering their doubts and scorn.

Arya took her hand when they went even deeper, into a black storeroom where the shadows played among dragon skulls.

“It’s all right,” she said simply.

Sansa tried to smile and squeezed Arya’s hand.

Down, down, down they went, until the men began to seem nervous and Sansa realised that even Ser Barristan, who’d lived in the Red Keep longer than any of them, didn’t recognise where they were. Only Arya seemed unperturbed--at least, she did until her torch swung close to a wall and their eyes caught the gleam of an iron ring. They stepped closer while the men looked around other parts of the chamber.

It was a door, small and heavy. The girls exchanged a glance; Sansa stepped forward and opened it. The latch resisted, rusted with age, and the thick door was difficult to pull, but at last it groaned and swung open a few inches. Eerie green light filled her eyes, and Sansa stepped back, her breath catching.

“Father?”

She jumped when his hand landed on her shoulder. He looked grim, but he squeezed her shoulder to reassure her. The men gathered around, passing the torches to those furthest from the chamber door. Ned and Ser Barristan and Lord Arryn stepped forward. They had to bend to get inside, as the door was so low.

No one spoke while they waited. Several minutes later, the three men emerged, their faces white and their eyes full of green.

“Wildfire,” her father confirmed, his voice hoarse. “More than a hundred barrels of it.”

Some of them started murmuring amongst themselves. Others just stared, clearly horrified.

Sansa was torn between terror and vindication, her heart soaring while her body shivered. She clung to Arya.

“We need to get it safely cleared out,” Ned said. “And the rest of the city must be searched. Start under the Sept of Baelor--leave no nook or cranny unsearched. There’s bound to be more wildfire elsewhere in this city. We must get _all_ of it out.”

They started making their plans. Arya tugged on Sansa’s hand and she followed, glad to be away from it. Once they emerged into the daylight, Arya turned Sansa’s shoulders and gave her a push.

Sansa frowned. “What was that for?”

“Go,” Arya said with unusual solemnity. “You’re white as a sheet. Go and find Jaime.”

_Yes._ She needed Jaime. She needed to feel his arms around her, to feel safe.

She cocked her head. “How are you so calm?”

Arya’s teeth flashed. “I’m not. But I’m training to be a water dancer, and I must not show fear. I’m going to find Mother, let her know what’s going on.”

Sansa nodded unsteadily and they parted ways. She was usually graceful, but she found herself stumbling up to Myrcella’s quarters, her feet numb and her legs wobbling.

The three golden heads popped up expectantly from their card game when she opened the door, but their smiles were wiped away the second they saw her face. Jaime jumped from his chair so quickly that it would have toppled if not for Myrcella’s reflexes. He was at her side in a bound.

“Sansa! What’s happened? Are you all right?”

She let him fold her in his arms, burrowing against his chest. Her trembling worsened for a moment as she relaxed before subsiding entirely. His fingers combed through her hair and she could hear his heart pounding under her ear.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Everything is fine now. I just…had a fright, that’s all.”

“Was it Joffrey, Mother?” Tommen asked worriedly. “He’s always frightening me.” 

She shook her head and finally pulled back, smiling to reassure them. “No, nothing like that. It’s no matter now, I just needed to be comforted.” She gestured toward their abandoned game. “What are you playing?”

Tommen immediately started chattering an explanation, but Jaime and Myrcella looked at her with concern until she had sat a while and the colour returned to her face. She couldn’t forget the massive amounts of wildfire, but she allowed herself to be comforted and distracted by their care and attention, and the knowledge that her father was taking steps to make things safe again.

Still, she wouldn’t be completely at ease until she knew all of the wildfire was gone.

 

Jaime was distracted, trying to imagine what could have upset Sansa so much and doubly set on finding a present for her. She’d been so rattled that she hadn’t said much for the rest of the day. He wanted to find something perfect to lift her spirits and comfort her, as she always did for him when he felt low.

This distraction was probably why he didn’t notice the strange lack of activity in the halls until he was halfway to Tyrion’s quarters. There were servants and guards occasionally rushing past, giving him very odd looks as they went by, but no nobles sauntering around or sitting out on the terraces finishing breakfast.

“Jaime! What are you doing?”

He turned to find Tyrion marching toward him, looking uncharacteristically anxious.

“Looking for you,” he replied, nonplussed and making no effort to hide it. “What’s going on?”

Tyrion reached him and immediately grabbed his wrist, hauling him back the way he’d come, as though he was a child out of bed after curfew. Jaime tried to twist out of his hold, annoyed, but couldn’t get loose without hurting his little brother and gave up, gritting his teeth.

“Are you going to answer me, or are you just going to put me to bed like a misbehaving child?” he snapped.

Tyrion glanced back at him without breaking stride. “You mean you really don’t know? I’ll have to find out which servant was sent to inform you.”

“Inform me of _what_?!”

“The King ordered everyone to stay in their chambers today, except those granted exceptions, like myself, servants needed to continue running the Keep, and the men he hand-picked to help him. _You_ were not one of the exceptions.”

They had arrived at his rooms, but Jaime dug in his heels and refused to go in. He wasn’t going to stay locked up all day without getting answers first. He shot Tyrion a mutinous glare when he tried shoving his leg.

His brother sighed. “The King and the small council found a bunch of wildfire under the Red Keep yesterday. They want everyone out of the way while it’s removed so we don’t all die from some stupid accident, like someone coming around the corner at the wrong moment.”

_Wildfire._ Sansa’s pale, terrified face came to the forefront of his mind. That was why she’d been so afraid. _Why didn’t she tell me?_ Then he recalled Tommen’s face when he saw how frightened Sansa was--no, she couldn’t have told him, not then, not without scaring poor gentle Tommen. They hadn’t had a moment alone for the rest of the day, as Sansa’s parents summoned her again almost as soon as they left the children for the evening.

“Why are you an exception but I’m not?” he asked, trying not to feel hurt. “I can help.”

“I’m an exception because Varys requested my help in running communications,” Tyrion said, and he looked distinctly guilty when he added, “And no, you can’t help. The King only wants men he trusts and who trust each other working together.”

Jaime flinched as though Tyrion had reached up and slapped him. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

He realised he was on the verge of babbling and closed his mouth. Nobody trusted the Kingslayer. It didn’t matter who he married, he would always be an oathbreaker to them when it came down to it. Untrustworthy. Dishonourable. False.

“Jaime, I--”

“Forget it,” he said, his tone clipped. “Go back to your work, I’ll stay in my room like a good boy.”

“Jaime--”

He closed the door in Tyrion’s face and leaned back against it, his eyes falling shut as he let out a long breath.

The day dragged with agonising slowness. He tried to stay focused on thinking of gift ideas for Sansa, but his mind kept drifting back to the activities going on elsewhere. It made his blood boil to think that there was important, life-saving work going on, removing the Mad King’s wildfire from the city, and he was excluded simply because they were all too stupid to make the connection between the wildfire and what Jaime had done. He was sure that they wouldn’t have listened to Sansa, who knew the truth--no, they were too stubborn, too set against him to ever change their minds for any reason.

He sent away the servants who came to bring him supper. He was too tense to even think of food, his belly a tight knot of hurt and frustration and despair. He went to the balcony for a while, hoping the cool night air would help calm him, but the sight of the city below only made him aware that there were still hundreds more barrels of wildfire out there, not just in the Red Keep. Would anyone even listen to him if he tried to tell them? He considered sending a message to Ned, but when had the king ever listened to anything he had to say? He couldn’t recall a single occasion.

Another knock sounded at his door and he was fully prepared to send the next person away, too. He stopped short when he saw the wax seal on the note the servant was holding--the sigil of the Kingsguard.

“The King has lifted the curfew, ser,” the servant said. “We are all free to move about the Keep again.”

Jaime took the note and nodded tightly. “Thank you.”

The servant bobbed a quick bow and scurried off. Jaime closed the door and considered the note in his hand. He wasn’t a Kingsguard anymore, so he hadn’t the faintest clue what any of his former “brothers” might want with him. Perhaps they were planning to give him a farewell send-off, he thought sardonically, snorting at the idea.

There was no use putting off the inevitable. He broke the seal and unrolled the note, swallowing hard against the lump he was pretending wasn’t there.

_“Ser Jaime--_

_You and I have some unfinished business. Report to me at your earliest convenience._

_Ser Barristan Selmy_  
_Lord Commander, Kingsguard”_

That was it. Nothing else. He even flipped the note over, and held it up to the candle to shine through the paper to check for a hidden message, but there was nothing.

“Unfinished business” could mean anything. Perhaps Ser Barristan meant to fight him--or to congratulate him on finally removing the white cloak he’d been “shaming” for so many years. It was hard to say, and he knew the curiosity would eat him alive all night if he waited until morning to find out.

He buckled on his sword belt and strode out of his chambers. The servant hadn’t lied--people still gave him strange looks as he passed, but no one tried to stop him and the other nobles were moving about in their usual fashion again. He swiftly made his way through the Keep to the area where the royal family’s chambers were. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had his solar and bedchamber in the same wing, so that he was nearby to defend them.

Jaime hesitated when he finally reached the door to the solar. Maybe he should have waited until morning--maybe “at your earliest convenience” was intended to mean after the morning meal? Ser Barristan could easily be abed already, after the long day’s work he’d had, and he might not appreciate--

The door opened and Ser Barristan looked at him with a deadpan expression.

“My door can’t possibly be that interesting.”

Jaime swallowed. “I--”

The door opened wider and Ser Barristan stepped away, gesturing for him to come in. Jaime obeyed, fighting the urge to bite his lip or fidget. He closed the door again and walked to the table. He gestured at the wine decanter. Jaime shook his head once, tightly, and he nodded, accepting that.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” he said, settling himself at the table.

There was no other chair, so Jaime stood opposite him. Apparently, this wasn’t intended to be a long visit.

“I’ve already given the white cloak and my Kingsguard armour to the royal armourer,” he said tentatively, trying to guess why he’d been summoned.

“I’m aware of that,” Ser Barristan said lightly.

He pulled a thick book across the table and opened it, flipping the pages. Jaime stiffened as he recognised it-- _The Book of Brothers_.

“I haven’t updated your pages,” the older knight continued, finding the page that said “Ser Jaime Lannister” at the top and sliding it across the table toward Jaime. “I’m about to do so and thought you might like to read it when I’m finished.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened and he tried to force a bland expression as he looked over the spare half-page dedicated to him and his “great deeds.” It only managed to take up half a page because the writing was so large.

_“Ser Jaime Lannister_

_Squired for Barristan Selmy against the Kingswood Outlaws. Knighted and named to the Kingsguard in his sixteenth year for valour in the field. At the Sack of King’s Landing, murdered his king, Aerys the second, at the foot of the Iron Throne._

_Pardoned by King Eddard Stark. Thereafter known as the Kingslayer.”_

He smiled one of his sharp, uncaring smiles. “If it pleases you, Ser Barristan, I’ll read it when you’re finished.”

He surely meant to give Jaime one last insult before they parted ways--his terms about Jaime’s release from the Kingsguard would undoubtedly be unflattering. Still, out of respect for the older knight, he would humour him and accept the insult. At least this was private, one man to another, not public humiliation.

Ser Barristan gave him a long, considering look that made the back of his neck itch before he slid the book back toward himself. He took up his quill and started writing. Jaime tried not to focus on the scratching sound of it against the parchment, but after a while, he realised that Ser Barristan had moved to the opposite page. His brows drew together as he tried to think of how he was coming up with so much to say about Jaime winning a tournament.

At the end, he sprinkled salt on it, blew across the ink once, and slid the book back in front of Jaime.

He leaned over it and had to blink at it for a while before the words of the addition started to make sense.

_“Through the murder of King Aerys Targaryen, responsible for saving half a million people, the population of King’s Landing at the time, from death by wildfire, which King Aerys had ordered placed under key portions of the city in the event that the city was overrun by his enemies, at which time his king ordered that King’s Landing and all of its inhabitants be burnt. The murder of Aerys the second and his pyromancer prevented this order from being carried out during the Sack of King’s Landing._

_Served Eddard the first dutifully and faithfully during the intervening years._

_Won the Tournament of the Princess Sansa of House Stark in his thirty-ninth year, and in reward was honourably released from service to the Kingsguard.”_

Jaime’s vision blurred, his face twisting as he tried to maintain his composure. He slid the book carefully away, straightening. His throat felt thick, and he spoke slowly and softly to keep his voice from cracking or wavering.

“I…. Thank you.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t trust his voice any further, and words seemed inadequate, his thoughts scattered as he dealt with the shock of why he had killed his king finally being acknowledged.

_Sansa,_ he realised, and his heart swelled. She must have told them--she must have found a way to make them listen.

“You might have told someone,” Ser Barristan said gruffly, but his expression was gentle with sympathy and regret.

“I might have,” Jaime agreed hoarsely. “But who would have listened?”

He just nodded, unable to argue that. After they had all decided that Jaime was a man without honour, they wouldn’t have believed anything he said, writing it off as him making excuses for his behaviour and trying to make himself sound heroic. Now, they had seen the caches of wildfire with their own eyes, the irrefutable proof of the Mad King’s plan--and he had Sansa on his side.

“Tomorrow, the King is going to have the Sept of Baelor and the surrounding areas evacuated so that the wildfire beneath can be found and removed as well,” Ser Barristan said, his tone and demeanour returning to his usual businesslike manner. “He has requested your help in that, and with the searches of the rest of the city in the next few days.”

Jaime squared his shoulders and lifted his chin--but doubt had been his companion for too long. “I thought he only wanted men he could trust?”

“You _are_ a man we can trust,” he said matter-of-factly.

He tried not to grin and knew he had failed. He couldn’t help it--this wasn’t the fickle cheering of a crowd at a tournament. It was real validation from men he respected. He’d pretended he didn’t care, but a part of him had craved their good opinion, just as he’d always craved a word or a look of approval from his father. Now that he had it, he felt as though his chest might burst.

He wanted to tell Sansa, immediately, to share his joy with her.

“I will gladly help in any way I can,” he said with pride. “Where shall I report in the morning?”

Ser Barristan filled him in on the details of tomorrow’s work and dismissed him. Jaime left with a skip in his step, feeling young and full of energy and happiness.

Her handmaiden frowned when she opened the door, but Jaime stepped past her, ignoring her huff.

Sansa stood to meet him from where she’d been sewing by the fire, her brow wrinkled with confusion but half-smiling already in response to his grin.

“Jaime, what--”

He cut her off with a kiss, and she automatically responded, her arms going around his neck.

“I love you,” he murmured when they broke for air, peppering kisses all over her face. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The handmaiden cleared her throat pointedly, but neither of them paid her any mind.

“Jaime, what’s going on?” Sansa said, stopping him with a gentle hand against his chin. “What’s happened?”

“You,” he said, kissing her fingers. “You happened. Everything has been right in my life since you came to King’s Landing. You make everything better.”

Her brow wrinkled again. “What’s brought this on?”

“You told them what happened,” he said, his breath hitching and his body shivering once with delight. “You told them why I killed him, and they believed you, and now they trust me. Ser Barristan wrote it in the Kingsguard book as my great deed, and your father asked me to help remove the wildfire tomorrow, and they think me an honourable man again, and it’s all because of you.”

She smiled then. “I just wanted everyone to see you the way I do.”

He laughed and kissed her again, dizzy with joy. Every time he thought he couldn’t be any happier, she did something else to make his life even better. All of the sorrows came from his own family, he thought, and all of the joys came from her.

The handmaiden cleared her throat again. “Lord Tyrion told me to fetch him if you two got too….”

They broke away again and Jaime nearly groaned.

“Very well, I’ll go,” he said petulantly.

Sansa chuckled and stroked his cheek once. “In two weeks, there won’t be anything between us.”

“I’ve never known the days to pass so slowly,” he said, giving her his most sorrowful look. “It feels as though it’s already been years, and the two weeks will never pass. I wish we were marrying tomorrow--I want you always by my side.”

“That’s exactly where I want to be, too,” she agreed warmly. “Go to sleep, my brave lion. You need to be well rested to handle the wildfire tomorrow--I can’t lose you now. When you wake in the morning, it will only be twelve days until we wed.”

He gave in pleasantly enough, but not without bestowing a few farewell kisses. He had just left her rooms when it hit him. He wanted her always by his side--so he knew exactly what to get her for a wedding present.

 

Sansa had thought she’d seen the best of Jaime, but over the following days, she saw him reach new heights. He held his head high and his smiles were real and dazzling. More than a few of the court ladies shot her jealous looks as Jaime shone with his pride and joy, more handsome than ever. Working side by side with his fellow knights to find and remove all the wildfire agreed with him--he never seemed to tire.

Word spread much slower than wildfire, but even those who had not yet heard the story of the truth behind Jaime’s most infamous deed noted Ned’s more respectful manner toward him and followed suit. When the story did finally began to spread, whispers and awed gazes followed Jaime wherever he went. He seemed to blossom under the attention--as did Podrick. The humble squire walked about with his chest puffed out and his mouth strained with the effort to suppress his grin. He kept Jaime’s armour and equipment in better shape than ever. Even the pommel of his sword gleamed, the gold lion’s head blinding anyone who happened to look at it from the wrong angle while the sun was shining on it.

She was too proud of Jaime to be amused by any of it. His children shared her view--particularly Tommen. It was immediately obvious when they learned the story, as Myrcella, tears in her eyes, demanded to know if it was true, and she told Jaime how sorry she was when he confirmed it.

Tommen, on the other hand, had gaped at Jaime with wide, glowing eyes. He’d looked up to and admired Jaime before, but there was a new level of hero worship now that he knew his “uncle” had saved so many people and not made a fuss about it.

“When I grow up, I want to be just like you,” he declared a few days later. “When can we resume my sword training?”

Sansa stifled a chuckle, but Jaime beamed, proud and touched, and he promised Tommen that they could go back to it after the wedding was over.

The wedding approached quickly and with agonising slowness at the same time. Her gown had finally come together, the white and tiny red flower patterned damask paired with plain grey silk trim and silver clasps. The decorations and ceremony were all settled--even the quibbling over who would pay had been settled. Jaime had reluctantly agreed that House Lannister would only pay for half of the wedding, as he’d been pressing to pay for all of it ever since the cost had been mentioned.

“Pay for half, Ser Jaime,” Catelyn had said during one meeting in a conciliatory tone. “And use the other half of the money you would have put toward the wedding into Sansa’s charity work instead.”

That was an appealing enough idea to both of them that Jaime immediately stopped arguing and agreed.

Tyrion and Sansa’s family grew ever more vigilant as the wedding day drew near. She and Jaime could hardly sneak two minutes alone together, as one of her siblings, her mother, or Tyrion would inevitably burst in on them. They couldn’t even walk the gardens unaccompanied. It made Jaime visibly annoyed and frustrated, but Sansa found herself a bit amused. They were putting in all this effort to make certain that nothing “untoward” happened before the two of them were officially wed, but she and Jaime had already been _very_ “untoward” long before their wedding day had been planned, as Tyrion well knew.

Tyrion must have guessed her thoughts when she smirked at him two days before the wedding.

“The eyes of the Realm weren’t on you then, as you well know,” he said, quirking a brow at her.

She sniffed. “I have no idea to what you’re referring.”

He snorted and shook his head, declining to answer that.

“Would someone like to clue me in?” Jaime asked, a bit snappish.

He never liked feeling excluded, but it was an unfortunate side effect of Tyrion and Sansa’s unspoken conversations only becoming spoken near the end--a more and more common occurrence now that they were working together to manage Casterly Rock, Lannisport, and the Westerlands without Jaime.

She smiled sheepishly. “I was just thinking how silly it was for everyone to be worrying about my maidenhead at this point.”

“Your betrothed doesn’t hide her thoughts as well as she thinks she does,” Tyrion said, trying and failing to hide his amusement.

Jaime scowled. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?” they chorused.

His scowl deepened into a full-blown pout and he crossed his arms, resembling nothing so much as a sulking child. “That.”

Tyrion blinked, apparently dumbfounded by the realisation that his handsome, dashing, renowned, mighty older brother was jealous of _him_ , for once, rather than the other way around.

Sansa chuckled and laid a hand on Jaime’s shoulder, leaning against him. “I’m sorry, Jaime. It’s inevitable where close siblings are involved. Robb and Jon do the same thing when they’re together and it used to drive me to distraction. We’ll try not to do that anymore.”

He relaxed a bit at the word “siblings,” though not as much as someone who had not previously had a relationship with his own sister might have. Tyrion just continued to look dumbfounded--and perhaps a bit touched at hearing another assertion of Sansa’s sisterly affection for him.

Arya followed through on her promise to hunt a boar for their feast, but only because Robb and Ser Arys went with her and helped. They kept quiet about it, allowing her the glory.

Robb gave her the kindest gift he could.

“Margaery doesn’t mind at all, so she and I will keep your poorhouses running and clean,” he promised the night before the wedding. “Since you’ll be too far away to look after them yourself.”

Sansa was too happy for words, and hugged him instead.

She spent the night before with Arya and her mother. Arya was unusually subdued, but she didn’t let on what was bothering her until they both headed for bed, when she abruptly grabbed Sansa in a hug, tears shining in her eyes.

“Arya, what…?” she trailed off, squeezing Arya’s hands in hers.

She bit her lip. “You know I don’t really hate you, even if I _do_ think dresses are stupid.”

Sansa blinked. “Of course not. I don’t hate you, either. You’re my sister.”

“Good. Exactly. Good.” Arya grabbed her in another hug that almost crushed the breath out of her. “You…you will write, won’t you? And you’ll visit, sometimes.”

She smiled as it dawned on her: Arya was going to _miss_ her.

“Of course I will,” she said warmly.

That made Arya smile and she turned and left without another word. Sansa watched her go, shaking her head--she was still a very strange girl, sister or not.

Catelyn came to her the next morning before Adylla could even help her out of her nightshift.

“I’ll do her hair after her bath, Adylla,” she said in a crisp, businesslike tone. “See to the bath while I lay out her gown.”

They helped her get ready in relative silence. After she was clean and dressed, her mother sat her down and brushed her hair. She was braiding the hair in Northern style this time--mostly loose, with what little braiding there was tied with small white ribbons. It was nearly finished when it hit Sansa, and she felt tears gathering in her eyes as her breath caught.

Catelyn put a hand on her shoulder. “What is it?”

“It’s just….” She sniffled and tried to smile at her. “I’m going to miss you brushing my hair in the evenings.”

Catelyn’s smile was just as watery as hers, and she hugged her with one arm. “I’m going to miss it, too.”

She held tight to her mother for a moment, leaning against her and basking in her warmth, until the choking feeling of tears subsided.

Preparations continued at a slow, deliberate pace, each piece assembled with great care. At last, there was nothing left but the maiden cloak, and Sansa stood before her mirror while her mother unfolded it, displaying a carefully stitched grey direwolf on the white cloth. Her hair was a sleek curtain of copper down her back, adorned with slim white ribbons on the crown of her head. Her gown seemed to shimmer when she shifted, the red flowers blowing in an invisible breeze across a snowy field. The grey trim brought attention to her pale skin at the neckline, her simple silver pendant catching the light. She hadn’t thought of it in a long time, she realised, but she looked very much like the princess from one of her stories at this moment. All of her dreams were coming true.

She watched the princess in the mirror smile back at her.

“I made this for you myself,” Catelyn said, her voice low and warm, as she placed the maiden cloak around Sansa’s shoulders. “Your father said I was too busy and should leave it to the dressmaker along with your gown, but I couldn’t bear the thought of sending you to your groom without a stitch of mine on you. My beautiful girl.”

Sansa blinked back tears for the second time that morning. “Thank you, Mother.”

“All is prepared, Your Grace, my Princess,” Adylla said with a respectful curtsy.

There was nothing for it, then, but to make their way out of the Keep, down to the litter that would take them to the Sept of Baelor. She’d made the trip hundreds of times, of course, but today it felt like everything was new and beautiful.

Her mother left her at the doors, but her father was standing there waiting on the other side. He didn’t look so grim today--in fact, he looked almost happy, in his finest clothes and bright silver cloak, the lines in his face easing. He took Sansa’s hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm, squeezing her fingers gently.

“I am happy for you, sweet girl,” he said, with such a warm gleam in his eye that she almost cried again.

She smiled, hoping she looked as happy as she felt. “Thank you, Father.”

They turned together and began to walk down the aisle toward her future. Catelyn had joined the rest of her family to one side, her hands over her mouth and her eyes sparkling with tears. Arya was scowling as hard as she could, but the way she bit her lip gave her away. Robb grinned at her when their gazes met, and sent a soft look Margaery’s way.

On the groom’s side, Tyrion stood holding the bride cloak, looking as proud as she’d ever seen him, the gloom of the past few weeks melted away. He’d taken great pride in telling her that the bride cloak they had brought for Sansa had previously belonged to their mother, the much-beloved Joanna Lannister. She had assured him that she would be equally proud to wear it. Tommen and Myrcella stood nearby, smiling and crying all at once, Tommen squeezing his sister’s hand.

Then, at last, her eyes were drawn to Jaime. She had expected him to wear the bright victorious grin he’d displayed on the battlefield, or the wide happy smile that showed most often around his children--but instead, he looked utterly at peace, his smile soft, his eyes warm. He wore a gold jacket with red tracery and gold lion’s head clasps, a red half-cape slung over one shoulder not quite hiding the sword hanging from his belt. He was bathed in golden light from the window beyond.

He had never looked more like a figure from one of the songs of old.

Sansa smiled and stepped up beside him, extending her hand. He folded it gently in his own and held her gaze.

The rest of the world fell away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This is from "Wooing Song," a poem by Giles Fletcher. It's in the public domain, and one of the few poems I actually enjoy.
> 
> (2) I wrote this. I'm aware that it's terrible, but to be fair, Jaime isn't _supposed_ to be good at poetry. ;)
> 
> That's all, folks. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed.


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